


Gödel and the Alcubierre Warp Drive

by Laysan_albatross



Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Backstory, Espionage, F/M, Gen, Intrigue, M/M, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Queerplatonic Relationships, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-12-26 03:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12049986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laysan_albatross/pseuds/Laysan_albatross
Summary: Where you play the game of intrigue for the second time and still have no idea what is happening.> After dying, Q is thrown back in time and can't understand why certain people find him so interesting.





	1. I-V

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [so you were never a saint.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/554771) by [paperclipbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch). 



> Warnings: Twisted relationships, inconsistent canonical timeline, not Brit-picked, unbetaed.

I.

Q doesn’t die in a plane like he had always suspected he would but on the side of a mountain at the open doorway of a painfully cliché secret laboratory located in the Eduardo Avaroa National Reserve that one would imagine seeing in a B movie. With a hand pushed against the skin above his left hipbone, he eyes the door across the chamber silently, mind, once clear and feared, grows weak, struggling to generate enough willpower to get up, to walk, to survive, to not sleep. It’s cold but the blood still seeping from the blasted bullet wound was hot and leaking between his fingers. He fumbles at his pockets, pulling out what looked like a worn Bluetooth headset and flips on four switches.

“- Q? Q!” Satellite communicator: developed by Q branch, remarkably unremarkable at first glance in terms of spy equipment until one realizes its ability to withstand the compressive power equivalent to 50 lbs of TNT at 5 feet or the steel-reinforced heel of certain operatives. “Q can you hear me?!”

He raises the mouthpiece and clears his throat, “M, this is Q reporting on site. Prepare protocol Q transference 4623A and put R on coms.”

“R is monitoring the assault with 008 and 009-” Mallory’s heavy breaths turns into static – with the lack of background noise, it seems like he was working unaided in the monitoring room. MI6 must be stretched to its limits if R was delegated to a secondary task. What a clusterfuck of a mission. From the start, MI6 had been reacting to attacks without the chance to retaliate. Q grits his teeth in frustration: _this will change soon if it’s the last thing I do._ Then he thinks grimly: _it will be my last_. “You can’t suddenly call 4623A without giving me a sitrep. There’s an evacuation team activated from standby making their way over. ETA is 2 hours.”

Q clicks his tongue, “I will not be able to make it,” not without epinephrine on hand and stat fluid replacement for all the blood he has been… is losing. “The activation code is twenty-four fifty-two spoken and updated on August 4th of last year requiring synchronized unlock. I have controlled the area on my side – the program has deactivated and is contained within the laptop on the south wall if you are interested. All hostiles are down, as am I.” He sighs and let his head fall onto the stone wall. “Further instructions would be in the data file I had sent two minutes prior as an encrypted text.”

The silence stretches on the other side. “It’s been a pleasure, Q.”

“A pleasure,” he echoes into the din. “Thank you for allowing me to work alongside Her Majesty’s brightest and most talented, however short lived.” A bitter taste slowly manifests at the back of his tongue: _I am still young_. Even Bond managed to settle into honeymoon picturesque bliss, despite all his attempts at the contrary, and Q couldn’t even make it to forty. “Tell R I am sorry for worrying her so and that I have taught her all I know and… and that I’m proud of her. Tell Moneypenny she’s allowed first pick of my unpatented equipment and that all my liquid assets go to the nonprofit that Tanner was advocating – Famford, if my memory serves me correctly. My will activates a week after ---” A loud crash interrupts his last moments, causing him to scowl. He can’t even die in peace.

His glasses had been crushed by his captors. His contacts were long lost. The silhouette is hazy, even when he squints, but the figure, male, tall, wearing a bespoke suit, has his hands raised in the universal sign for nonaggression, which makes no sense since they had no field agents stationed anywhere near these premises. Then the silhouette says, “Q,” and though it’s been years, the voice is all too familiar: gruff, deep, hoarse, loaded with meaning that he had never able to decipher. And then the man’s face comes into view and a hand with calloused fingers comes to brush stray strands of hair from his eyes. Sound and touch: two sensory modalities informing him that he is not hallucinating.

He blinks. “Bond?!”

“007?!” Mallory exclaims over the communicator.

Q stares in disbelief and anger. The man had fucked off to wherever in the world - his last known destination was the Caiman Islands though the information is four months old, having left London on helicopter with a gorgeous woman on his arm and the backdrop of a cliché sunset. The 007 designation had disappeared with the man, either as an honor or as a curse, one could not say. _How did you get here? Why are you here?_ “A bit too old to return from retirement, aren’t you?”

Blue eyes like cold fire, charismatic aura that could bring leaders to their knees in all manner of ways – there was never another agent quite like him. His hand is warm to the touch – Q leans into the heat. “How long do you have?”

Q shakes his head, “Less than whatever you have,” he assures. He is cold.

“Stay awake.” There’s a slight hint of urgency and fear in those words – which doesn’t make sense. “Please.” Bafflement stirs between his muddled thoughts. He is not making sense.

He shakes his head again, a sense of calm settling deep into his bones. He has tied up all visible loose ends and he is not worried. MI6 quaked at the knees with the newest incursion but will come back ten-fold like it had always done and will replace Q with another of similar competence like it had always done. He is not even in pain. “R will need someone to make sure that she doesn’t blow off her fingers with exploding biros,” he murmurs, half to himself, half to Mallory who is demanding to speak to the ex-agent who is kneeling close with larger hands mapping and covering the injury. “I,” _am happy that I am not dying alone. That seems to be one of the few comforts you can give on a reliable basis._ “It is nice to see you again, Mr Bond.”

“Q, look at me.” The light slap on his cheek doesn’t register as pain, dulled by- “Q!”

His head lolls to the side, too heavy to support, as arms wrap around him and lift…

“Q!”

II.

He comes to in a violent fashion, a method of waking trained in all members of the MI6, down to the lowest subordinates in R&D – but even with his senses spread, his breaths are normal and regulated. Then, he opens his eyes. He is in his flat that he had acquired after uni with the same chipping paint and laminate countertops, same maple hardwood floors, same window view of the Old Lab Pub across the street. His potted thyme, which had died years ago, is only yellowing at the leaf tips. His books are out of order on his shelves – ordered by author instead of subject. He is missing many aspects of his personal security that he was constantly improving upon such as the electroshock voltage applicators at the window trims and sills; the motion sensors at the corners were not streamlined with the upgraded Raspberry Pi – this and countless other small changes forced him to an impossible conclusion.

His self-inventory is further baffling: there is no wound, no pain, no blood staining his gingham pajama bottoms or his threadbare t-shirt two sizes too big. His laptop is perched on a heatsink pad, running a small window: green code on black background. He checks the date at the lower right hand corner and confirms his suspicions. Time travel is an idea bantered back and forth endlessly in Q branch: logistics, general relativity, Dr Who, etc – but the concept was agreed to be something that would not be plausible in any near future and certainly not within their lifetime. But he is here, no doubt about it, without any obvious rips in the fabric of time, forcing him to reconsider his arguments against the multiverse theory and the existence of paradoxes. While checking his upload history, he struggles to recall the reason why he was inputting a multitude of bugs into a private server attached to a deep web site that specialized in government military leaks – he was never the type for ‘semi-public espionage’ and hadn’t joined MI6 yet, so why is he risking his IP address, foregoing countless other safety measures? Perhaps the group he was hunting had retaliation maneuvers that – ah, right, _Ourumov_.

_I remember._

He had been ‘persuaded’ by an arms-dealer syndicate headed by Arkady Grigorovich Ourumov into hacking the funds of a smuggling ring who specialized in bioweaponry – the carrot on the stick being information on the location of his parents who had disappeared while he was studying mechanical engineering. _But that wasn’t quite the story_. He pulls the laptop into his lap. _My parents were already dead. My sister found sanctuary within an international organization against money laundering. I hadn’t been close to any of them but…_ He cracks his knuckles, peering at his, frankly, semi-amateur work, editing his commands into something more terrifying to crush both parties into fine dust. _Two are dead and she does not care and they should have killed me too._

 _I am not so naïve now_. He connects a USB containing a program he had been commissioned to create for anonymous internet benefactors, having been scrapped and abandoned when he didn’t receive pay. _This didn’t hold up against Silva’s virus but I’m sure neither of you have ever seen the likes of this monstrosity_. He then hacks into the server room and gains access to their security cameras. And now he waits. Behold: the first change he enacts. What else should be done? 

 _Shall I search for my sister?_ She had died by the time he garnered enough connections in MI6 to look for her. He could feasibly contact her before she drowned on her own volition. He also briefly ponders the merits and madness of researching every inconspicuous blue telephone box in all of Britain and other possibilities of science fiction. The Alcubierre Warp Drive quantified foliation of space-like hypersurfaces in the context of proper time and spatial coordinates but required, at the minimum, non-baryonic exotic matter to be utilized in any imaginable manner and neither CERN nor any other particle accelerator has released any monumental findings as of late.

Five hours later, his source code traverses the wires, across the English Channel, and into a once-military facility filled to the brim with various tech that were automated and remotely access. His breath hitches as he watches the chaos unfold, the scene of the man nearest the south wall asphyxiating on the gas released from canisters was particularly satisfying. The loss of his family still hurt, years after the tragedy, but the pain registers as nothing more than a dull ache against his sternum.

 _That felt cathartic_. He stretches, popping a few joints in his shoulders before standing and staring out the window at the sleepy London streets, blood rushing to his head from the vindicative thrill caused by multiple remote detonations. _I thank MI6’s influence for making me cruel._ He pads over to his kitchenette and turns on the electric kettle, rummaging in his cabinet for his jar of Earl Grey. _However, that ruthlessness didn’t stop me from slowly dying from a gut wound outside of civilization. This time, I would like to live to be an old man, taking care of his two Maine Coons_. He gives a cursory look at the corners of the room, where a drink-well and a bowl of kibble should sit. _Or I can get a dog. Or a snake. Or a perhaps fish. No one has told me that my living conditions must mirror the previous timeline, assuming that the divergence occurred the moment I was sent into this body_.

He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop: a fifth dimensional being may appear on his balcony with a list of favors that he owes, informing him of various preternatural, lofty goals that must be accomplished, that he was the “Chosen One” or some similar rot. _I need to live. As long as I change the parameters and players of the last mission, sabotage their shipments of platinum and lead, I’ll live to see another day. I know where the players are. I know their plans. I’ll have the advantage – like now._ Like the still rolling audio where men and women curse one of his many names. He smiles.

In the last timeline, he had sworn vengeance upon his parents’ murderers but had not been skilled enough for the execution; Ourumov’s people had disappeared off the map, never to be seen again, and the smuggling group had ordered at total of six assassinations until his seventh identity change when he finally managed to convince them that he was truly dead. He had been left bereft, anger lashing about in an uncontrolled manner, suffering from his hubris until a year or so later when he was eyeballs-deep in intrigue and counterintelligence, assured of his demise until he was snatched up, at the last second, by MI6 for Queen and country. He takes a calm sip of his tea and contemplates the meaning of fate.

And, as if deciding that he had enough time spent on self-reflection, the universe promptly dropped the other shoe in the form of two men kicking his front door down with guns ready and hot. The first man wore what Q branch had cheekily termed a “tactical turtleneck,” nondescript brown hair chopped short and features that hinted of Russian Cossack descent. _006._ His mind supplies despite his shock with a flash of an ID photo amid old files. _Alec Trevelyan had betrayed the MI6 before I was recruited by Boothroyd. This is too early. I thought I had more time._ But that’s not the case, was it? What was the proverbial butterfly wings that triggered the hurricane? The minor changes to his code must have caused far more devastation of his enemies, attracting far more attention from all sides, than the last turnabout. He does not (could not, will not) regret it but…

The timeline has clearly, irrevocably changed and he is a fucking idiot for not seeing it happen.

“Mr McCowen?” _Mr--- Oh. Right._ That alias hadn’t lasted long in his previous life and he had grown used to Mr Llewelyn. He runs a hand through his hair, other hand still clenched on his hot mug of tea, hip propped slightly against the countertop, looking more or less harmless. A flash of a shined badge, a gloved hand raised in warning, “The Secret Intelligence Service has a warrant for your arrest for cyberterrorism against the Crown.”

 _Nothing makes sense_. “Ah,” he stares at his tea and then at his laptop and all the evidence against him still bare on the screen window, “And may I ask who are the esteemed men arresting me at gunpoint?”

The speaker grins, baring teeth. “I am Agent 006 and my partner here is Agent 007.” Ice blue eyes, blond hair, a name venerated and spoken in disgust in equal measures. The question of why Bond of the past timeline had shown up moments before his death had popped up in his musings in the past few hours but he had been trying to avoid any attempt at discerning the answer. _The man has never made sense_. Why had he come to search for Q? Why was he the one to watch Q die? _Why? Why? Why?_ Realistically, he’ll never know the answer – this 007 is not the 007 that he is familiar with.

James Bond glances up from his survey of the room and maintains unnerving eye contact just as he cautiously took a sip of tea, suddenly hit with the strangest sense of déjà vu.

_“Well, I'll hazard I can do more damage on my laptop, sitting in my pajamas before my first cup of Earl Grey than you can do in a year in the field.”_

III.

“Reid McCowen,” Trevelyan mused as he leaned against the concrete wall with crossed arms, “That is definitely a handle though I can’t imagine anyone that young needing a sobriquet. Bond, what do you think of the man?”

“He still has spots,” Bond remarked, passively committing his face to memory. The one-way mirror provided a clear view of a young man with delicate features and unruly hair, hands resting palms down on the metal table with his bony wrists chained to the edge, staring with a tired expression at Bill Tanner, chief of staff, who sat across and perused an appallingly skinny file. In the past four hours, he has fidgeted twelve times, shifted his weight nine times, and yawned twice. Questions had since shifted from loyalties and his contacts to his resume and past experiences – all formality by this point.

 

> Major Boothroyd had left the interrogation room by the second hour, having already came to a decision that he would not budge an inch for. “I want him as my successor,” he had declared, wiping his brow with a flowered handkerchief, “He is ideal, smart as a whip with fingers in many pies, resources that MI6 will benefit from if he joins.” He had turned to M and flashed a smug smile, “It seems that I will be retiring before you, Mansfield,” he gloated with self-assurance, as if the subject himself doesn’t have a background dossier filled with more holes than swiss cheese. “Send him to my office when you finish with him, preferably by seven.”
> 
> “You are moving fast, Major” Bond had observed with narrow eyes, “Desperation shows your hand.”
> 
> “Perhaps, James,” Boothroyd had loudly exhaled, “but I’m not letting this chance slip by. A change in leadership should have occurred years ago; new blood should be encouraged to apply. The technological shift from gadgetry to hyperspace has relegated people like me to the lower rungs of the intelligence security hierarchy. I am a fossil trying to catch up in a new era.” Through the mirror, ‘Reid McCowen’ leaned back in his chair and rubbed his temples to stave off a headache. “May I remind you that Ourumov’s death was not by our hand.”
> 
> “May I remind you that there is a large possibility that we are inviting a double agent amongst our numbers,” M had cut in acidly, “We know his enemies, we know his education, but we have no idea of his connections or motives. He tells us that there is none remaining but we have no proof of lie nor truth because he had, in his words, erased their existence from any record. No trail. Nothing.” Everyone watched as ‘Reid McCowen’ pore over various documents, eyes moving at a lightning pace as he skims the legalese and fine print, signing on the dotted line or wherever Tanner was pointing. “We’ve managed to track down four other alternate identities and even more aliases online that have never seen the light of day. We know nothing about this boy besides the fact that he had spent a large portion of his life in London.”
> 
> “I know people like him,” Boothroyd had carelessly waved her concerns away, “geniuses of his caliber – you cannot entice them with favors or threats but with the truth.”
> 
> “You’ve already told him the truth. And what was this truth?” Trevelyan asked dubiously.
> 
> Boothroyd chuckled before developing a more somber mien, “The truth is that he will be bored and go mad within five months if we leave him be.” He waved his hand towards the mirror, “Limited affect, poor sleep, poor appetite, slowed cognition, his residence was bare save for a few essentials, neighbors state that he has isolated himself to an alarming degree, and his communications online are professional – his symptoms are out of context from the bereavement that is expected. No. He will hang himself by next year or play hard and fast until he is caught.”
> 
> M had raised an eyebrow in disbelief, “He has ‘slowed cognition’? It’s impressive that you gained all of this with just two hours of examination.” After a few seconds of silence, Boothroyd wiped his brow. M scowled, “Major, have you been keeping tabs on the boy without informing me?!”
> 
> The elder man fidgeted with his handkerchief and hedged, “There were a couple of reports of electromagnetic pulses scrambling computers at the outer borders of Cambridge University campus and I was called in by a professor to consult and locate the source. I never fully established contact with Mr Bayldon, as he was known at the time. He left for an internship at a gunsmith before I could confirm my findings and since technically no laws have been broken, I decided not to pursue after confiscating his devices but he moved on to other interests by then and had left the campus.” He cleared his throat, “I had left my report on your desk.”
> 
> “I’m sure I’ll find it between stacks of shoddily written paperwork that you deliver inches thick at a time and late,” M snapped back before regaining control of her temper. “Never mind that. If you are more familiar with him than any of us, then answer this: will he betray us, Geoffrey?”
> 
> Boothroyd straightened his tie, “He has no other ties, M. Material gains do not tempt him unless they are made by his own hands; there is no reason for him to betray us. Let him be busy. Let him feel challenged. You saw his laptop – papers on Einstein’s field equations and the Alcubierre time dilation. Have you ever met anyone who reads esoteric theoretical physics as a hobby? The boy needs direction.” M pursed her lips in thought as Boothroyd kept pressing, “This situation is far from ideal, but there is no need to fret so long we make do with the necessary precautions.”
> 
> “See that you put an order in for psych evaluations, two months at minimum.” M said crisply.
> 
> “Will do. Remember Olivia, he is a blank slate.” He is a thin and tired young man sporting unruly, ink-black hair and disheveled clothing. Boothroyd rubbed his palms together. “You know my opinions regarding blank slates.” He gave a meaningful look toward James Bond and Alec Trevelyan, “Look at our best operatives here – blank slates,” _orphans make the best recruits_ \- pushed into devotion for no one else but Queen and Country. “Mr McCowen’s’ future attachments will be made within Six. Let’s try to make him feel welcome, alright? Tell Tanner to instate him as R for now; he’ll be Q by the end of next month.”
> 
> Boothroyd had left, whistling a jaunty tune as he strolled down the corridors and turned the corner, out of sight just as Tanner began the job orientation package, outlining health insurance and pension options. James sighed. …Believe it or not: this is not the most unusual way Six had shanghaied a man into the Secret Service.

“I think they are about done,” Trevelyan noted cheerfully as the meeting neared the fifth hour, following the proceedings with an indescribable hunger as ‘Mr McCowen’s’ cuffs unlocked and clicked open, as his hands gingerly flexed open and closed, as he stood and rolled his shoulders to loosen tense knots in his back. “Come James, let us see how our new R reacts to 00 agents when he is not in his sleep wear. We best prepare him as he, if Boothroyd has his way, will be dealing with all of us in short notice.”

IV.

“Again.” Bond fired. “Again.” Another gunshot echoed off the walls. After slipping off his ear protection, Bond handed the empty cartridge over to R who hummed noncommittally and scrawled a line of numbers into his small notebook. “Thoughts?”

Bond thoughtfully tested the weight of the Walther PKK/S, “The recoil improved but the grip is wider than what I am used to but nothing that I can’t manage.” At the far end of the gun range stood a test dummy with seven bullet holes, each about an inch from ‘x’ that marked the heart. An inch meant the difference between life and death – his aim is currently unacceptable for a man of his caliber.

R raised an eyebrow, “You sprained your shoulder in Macau. Does it still hurt?” Bond raised his right shoulder and nodded. “You’ve learned to compensate with the other makes but this,” R taps his arm with a pen, “We’ll give it a few days and wait for your baseline to return. The microdermal sensor needs to shift closer along the seams which is possible if we have some lighter material on hand. Boothroyd may know a manuf-” He stopped mid-word as Bond swings the gun towards his temple, stopping abruptly a millimeter from his skin. R’s mouth closed with a click but he didn’t swallow; instead he cocked his head to the side in consideration and leveled a flat look towards Bond.

“You didn’t flinch,” was Bond’s observation as he reached up, with gun still in hand, and buried his fingers into R’s thick hair, shifting his stance to trap the younger man against the wall by the booth corner. > He with a name no one knows, who killed 20+ members from two anarchist groups with a few keystrokes, who boasts of expert knowledge in weapon design, who is thin and fair in a way that suggests glass-like fragility within the hands of any MI6 agent. Bond yanked back, forcing R to bare his throat - a long, pale, column that caused the predator within him to straighten in interest.

R narrowed his eyes, “Are you trying to make a point, 007?”

Bond hummed, “If there’s any possibility of adding in melee capabilities…” Smiling amiably, he leaned forward, boxing the other man further in, “It would be greatly appreciated.”

R blinked, “I can add in a retractable knife coated with a fast acting poison,” he offered.

The suggestion brought out a chuckle from the older man, “00s are not assassins, R, we’re mainly infiltrators and saboteurs. The license to kill is in place for missions that turn into level nine code black. Otherwise, priority is not given to the body count. We often employ,” Bond pressed closer, “other methods,” and didn’t bother elaborating how often a mission can go wrong.

R noted the omission with a small quirk of his lips. “I’m sure you’ve found those methods effective.”

Bond tilted his head, considering the words spoken. “You’ve read my file,” he purred. R gave a nod. “All of it.” After a pause, R gave a slower nod.

“They read like the love child of an Ian Rankin novel and Belle de Jour on acid.” He quipped back lightheartedly. “I could,” he started after a minute of silence, “use a neuroparalytic, though you’ll be strongly suggested to see Medical about inoculation procedures. The addition of the knife itself will require another four weeks of adjustments and testing with me.” Distracted by his thoughts, R shifted his weight from foot to foot within the confined space before reestablishing eye contact, “Think you can handle that much before you get your toy back?”

Despite the proximity, he showed no pupil dilation, no jump in pulse, no increased breath rate, no other involuntary body language that suggested attraction. Perhaps that aspect of his character was one of the reasons why Major Boothroyd was so eager to have him as a replacement out of all the others working in Q-branch was his lack of reaction towards social weapons such as charisma and sex appeal.

Bond stepped back and immediately the heavy pressure that wafted between them in thick and coiling waves lifted and dissolved into nothing. “I can do that,” he answered blithely, “I don’t mind.” However, “Alec might,” he added.

An unreadable expression rippled across R’s features and disappeared by the next second. “Alec.” R parroted, kneading the skin between his brows, “I’ve seen you two together but thought it was only in a professional sense. He is a close friend?”

“Of sorts.” Half-truth and half-lie – Alec Trevelyan had been a colleague, a stranger who meshed well with Bond’s own flair for style and tactics, who he trusted enough to share similar instincts during high stakes high adrenaline encounters and nothing more. Two alpha-males would hardly get along in any normal setting, at least not without a similar interest in a subject, or in this case, a person. “He will be simply devastated with the attention you’ve been bestowing upon me.”

R rolled his eyes as he reclaimed the gun, “My favor is not to be parceled out like a nonrenewable resource,” lithe fingers running over the back strap, grip safety, and slide catch. “There is plenty of space in my heart for all of you,” he commented mockingly. A beat later, he sighed, “His prototype is in my desk drawer. I was planning on presenting it to him when he comes back from Donetsk.”

 

> “It is not that I don’t like you,” newly instated R had explained patiently to Trevelyan who was bending over the work table, gaze flickering between the young man and his mechanical creations, “The regard you have for me is something usually seen between two people in widely different positions of power. I’d be a fool not to trust my instincts,” he took a step back and collected the schematics for an electromagnetic railgun, “There is something dangerous is your eyes, Trevelyan.” Trevelyan seemed affronted but James silently concurred: that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? There had always been something there brewing within the Cossack, an inexplicable anger that no one was willing to prod aimed at MI6 itself. Many people wonder why he was still on the active roster but no one dared to ask. Perhaps M knows – more likely than not the reason is associated with family or Trevelyan’s lack thereof, but every agent here is an orphan in some definition or another.
> 
> Agent 006 pouted which is as disconcerting as one could imagine given his large frame and imposing presence, “Mr Bond is every bit as dangerous as I am,” he protested, “I promise there won’t be any misconduct in office once you are promoted the sector head.” R huffed in amusement and disbelief. “Your instincts are fine. I’m not telling you not to listen to them; but you seem… not scared,” Trevelyan finally settled upon, “You watch and you wait. I am the one who finds you intriguing but you like James more than me.”
> 
> “Be careful of the words you put in my mouth,” James interjected as he inspected the old computers at the far corner, “I too find our would-be Quartermaster intriguing.”
> 
> “Never thought it possible to be any more annoying than him but you’ve proven me wrong,” R muttered under his breath – after another prolonged session of eye contact with 006, he slowly uncrossed his arms and attempted to loosen his stance. “What do you want?”
> 
> Alec Trevelyan slowly blinked, tempted to pursue the comment clearly not meant for his ears, but instead flashed a smile, “Besides quality equipment made by your hands? A functional gun that does not fire in the hands of my enemies. Your voice during missions. Your finest company.”
> 
> Floundering at the declarations, R briefly searched for James in the corner for advice but received nothing but a faint curl of the lips and a short salute with two fingers. “… We will see,” he finally relented, tone betraying his fatigue from the recent mental gymnastics – tacit permission unknowingly given. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to drop off some reports for Major Boothroyd – please do not break anything.”
> 
> The door closed behind him. In the soft lull of the fan, James flicked a lighter and gave a pleased smile when he noted blue electricity instead of flame. _He said ‘Please do not break anything,’ not ‘Please do not touch anything,’_
> 
> “He’s learning to pick his battles,” Trevelyan reached the same conclusion. “I think he’s charmed.” He insisted with smug pride and looked around, hands on his hips, a king surveying all that he will conquer: wall to wall machinery, a bookcase of miscellaneous pleasure reading, a slatwall tool board, a working table, a worn couch. “I think I will like it here.”

“I do not understand him. I do not understand you.” R groused as he packed away the beta prototypes into an unblemished leather suitcase, “And I am suddenly reminded why I always fall back to technology when people fail me.”

“Is unpredictability honestly an undesirable character in a person?”

“You see, computers do not judge you or play with your mind,” R continued as if James’ words went unheard, “making you think of implausible notions, filled with motivations I can’t discern. Unlike people, computers obey my commands, programs dance to my music, they are simpler unless I make them otherwise.” They made their ways to the exit and down a corridor. MI6 employees unconsciously and semi-consciously parted to make an open path leading directly to the lifts.

“Your sociopathic tendencies are dully noted,” James quipped back as the lift doors opened.

“At the very least, every day people, men and women I see on the streets, operate within a distinct set of parameters, parameters that I thought were universal.” R strolled into the lift; Bond followed, “until I met _you_ ,” the last word was punctuated by pointed jab at the button indicating basement, “And Trevelyan. Neither of you seem to have _limits_.”

Bond smiled as the doors closed behind them, “No other 00s?”

R huffed, “I can’t make those conclusions.”

Bond maneuvered himself into R’s personal space and grasped his chin with three fingers, bringing his face even closer than before, bodies pressed close until he could feel the other man’s heat emanating through two layers of fabric. “Look at me.” R obeyed mulishly, every inch of him broadcasting his reluctance, but James was patient and was willing to press the emergency stop catch if need be. “Can you read me now?”

The younger man’s eyebrows jumped high into his hairline in surprise and his eyes gained a quality of sharpness, “I’ve been meaning to ask.” And there it was: a tell – R bit down on his bottom lip before taking a deep breath, both hands reaching up and gripping Bond’s arms through his suit until his knuckles whitened, “This.” Seduction. “You do this with men too?”

“Not often,” he acquiesced.

“‘Not often,’ he says.” A strangled laugh bubbled out of the man, “Then no, I cannot read you, James Bond.” Bond released his grip; R stumbled back – the silence between them grew and they stared at each other until the lift doors opened.

V.

– _Quartermaster, Section Leader_ – settles into his bones the moment he was promoted, title worn like a beloved windbreaker, as if a puzzle piece slides into place, slowly forming a picture that still could not be interpreted due to its state of progress – though, knowing his recent luck, the final product might be a milk puzzle. A blank canvas holding possibilities that he did not consider. Door number two should neither offer a better option nor should exist. And yet. The old guard had loved to exchange stories about the wildcard quality of Bond – they never mentioned anyone else. Alec Trevelyan lounges on the couch in the Situation Room like a feline, assessing eyes half-lidded in comfort, “Is something wrong, Q? You’re staring.” Q twitches. _Yes. Something was wrong._ A butterfly has created a hurricane, a domino has demolished an entire building, somewhere, somehow, Q has changed the world.

“You’re didn’t die at Arkangelsk.” Trevelyan should’ve been faked his death via execution by General Ourumov at the Arkangelsk Chemical Warfare Facility and resurfaced years later as head of the Janus Crime Syndicate, threatening MI6 and the world with Goldeneye. Trevelyan should’ve been consumed by anger at the injustice wrought upon the Don Cossacks in Lienz and his family. He should’ve died alone. That is neither here nor there.

Instead, the man stares at him with a puzzled yet indulgent look, stark light contrasting bruises against unmarred skin, “I did not.” The simple sentence fills Q with the desire to to tear out his hair and scream in frustration. This timeline has repeatedly, metaphorically, smacked him in the face with its rapid turnabout. In the last timeline, agents came and went: pick up tech, given basic rundown of tech, leave with tech, return with tech in pieces – simple and very impersonal. Q isn’t quite sure what he did or had said to inspire Alec Trevelyan to lurk about his private workroom as if he wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. What makes the revelation even more distressing is the realization that the damnable, infuriating, charming Alec Trevelyan was beginning to grow on him. In the last timeline, Eve had once commented that 00 agents were like cats. Q begs to differ: they are more like toadstools.

Q scowls as he turns back to his monitors and brings up the footage for four security cameras situated within the Grand Hotel Europe in St Petersburg. Agent 007 flits briefly across one of the screens, signaling for Q and further assistance. “007, you are on the line with Q-branch. There are four hostiles around the corner in wedge formation,” Q reports as bullets are fired and two blurry figures begin to grapple. “Your objective is past the east hallway. The good news is these men carry bullets of your caliber – take some time to search their pockets before moving on.”

“It seems you’ve been apprised of the situation, Q.”

Q peers over his shoulder at the newcomer, “M” he cautiously greets. “We are on schedule. 007 requested for eyes on the ground.” He waves a hand at the monstrous apparatus, “We are compensating and he,” Bond promptly disappears off screen, “is doing what he does best.” Q transitions to the cameras surrounding the outer property just in time to catch Natalya Fyodorovna Simonova flee into a crowd – east and south, away from 007’s general location. Q frowned in confusion: per the mission documents, she had been the “Bond girl,” a role colloquially termed and made popular in the last timeline by R, and one of his more memorable lovers. Did 007 have enough time to establish rapport with the programmer? No Simonova, no Trevelyan, Ourumov bears his blast scars with poor grace… The departure of events from the norm is unsettling – Q could only hope that Bond will prevent Goldeneye without her assistance.

M nods. “Thank you for reporting at such a short notice, Q,” she says brusquely, “These circumstances are far from the ideal first run as handler we had envisioned given your history with Arkady Grigorovich Ourumov, but we’ve do not have anyone else competent and available. You don’t understand how dire the situation had been.” _I know how dire it had been._ Roused from a cot located in the sleeping quarters underground at 0334 hours, a thermos full of shite coffee shoved into his hands as well as a forty-eight page debrief of mission parameters and three minutes to read (and then realizing that Trevelyan had returned from the secret chemical weapons production plant with minimal injuries instead of dying…) – yes, bloody dire indeed.

“Little prick is a roach,” Alec grunts, watching the proceedings with the interest of one at the local theater. “Knew him personally in my early years – slippery as fuck. Does he still wear his ring with the octopus? I’ve been meaning to ask him for the symbolism.”

M ignores his commentary with the patience gleamed from years of working alongside crude language and people, “We have sleeper agents stationed around the city in preparation for the protest rally against the new censorship laws passed by the body.” Her eyes strays to a screen on the far right showing a TV broadcast from helicopter of the throng on the road, calculating the amount of chaos she is willing to sow. “They are ready to be deployed at your say so if you require a diversion.”

“Рукописи не горят,” Alec quotes.

“Manuscripts don’t burn,” Q echoes hollowly as he adjusts his glasses. “Thank you, M. That is good to know.” He grimaces at the lines of characters that was scrolling semi-transparent on the right-hand side with a green CRT monitor aesthetic before connecting the servers with a portable laptop. “Fortunately, 007 made a clean escape after uploading the file.”

“Where?” M demands.

“Janus Uplink Facility in Cuba,” a black-white topographical map maximized and focused in on a small rectangle of interest, “007,” he taps his earpiece, “No more hostiles. Ourumov left with fifteen armed men but you will not pursue, I repeat, not pursue – turn right, no… not left, they aren’t there anymore, right, 007. …The extraction team will meet you at Zhdanovskaya and Bolshoy Prospekt by water in twenty-two minutes. Any injuries to report?”

“None immediate,” 007 says grudgingly after a beat.

“Safe travels then, Mr Bond.”

The com link turns off.

Q exhales and silently panics as the timeline diverges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The aliases that Q has are combinations of first and last names belonging to the many actors who played Q.  
> \- Рукописи не горят = Manuscripts don't burn: a popular quote in Bulgakov's _The Master and Margarita_ against censorship in Soviet Russia.


	2. VI-X

VI.

Many missions later, government superpowers deigned themselves to shake hands with other world leaders; espionage organizations relax minutely but continues to sharpen their knives for hypervigilance never truly leaves these individuals. The world does not whisper much information as it does rumors - Business as usual at Six.

Except.

Q threaded microfilaments as thin as cobwebs through the cracks and crevices and mortar-lines of the decrepit walls when he was not trying to dodge his two… Admirers? Friends? No one could truly quantify the relationship he shared with two specific 00 agents who lingered around Q’s sphere of influence like satellites to a planet – disregarding the unspoken social rules that talk of personal space and boundaries, shamelessly leaning over the younger man’s shoulder, resting their chin atop his mop of hair, bending down to whisper into his ear that brings out a myriad of expressions and responses – what is said, no one is quite certain. In any other situation, Bill Tanner would’ve concluded that their antics were done with cruel motives shaded with curiosity, with the intention to find their Quartermaster’s ticks and idiosyncrasies that would make him easier to manipulate. Neither 006 nor 007 attempted these tactics with Boothroyd or M but this scenario has been seen with countless other members of lower rank: R&D, accountants, field agents, technologists – resulting in a metaphorical path paved in broken hearts.

Tanner had thought about warning Q, perhaps giving him the standard pamphlet offered to those special persons who catch an 00 agent’s wanted or unwanted attention that outlines strategies to repel certain advances or what to expect should one ultimately falls to their charms. But then, one day (must be a Tuesday) as he was walking past a rarely-used lounge that doubled as a bunker, he overheard a conversation and he wondered if it wasn’t Her Majesty’s finest who have the upper hand but the division head himself.

> “I am willing to share him if you insist,” Mr Trevelyan’s voice echoed around the concrete walls. “M gave me the green light. You know how I operate.”
> 
> Mr Bond’s reply was low and muffled – whatever was said elicited a warning growl.
> 
> “Well then, you ought to move a bit faster and I don’t understand why you aren’t. You’re clearly eager to please… Ta, James. I hope you find whatever it is you wish to find.”

Alec Trevelyan was a Class Four flight risk due to his family’s embittered history with the British government and MI6. There was no outright evidence of betrayal or treachery, but there has been some electronic trail, vaguely created, that hinted at communications with Russia, though whether they are old friends or KGB agents, no one was certain. Interrogation and confrontation were deemed too risky and all M could do was mitigate the damage that was as certain as the sun.

And then a nameless man was brought to their attention by Major Boothroyd: Reid McCowen or Ben Llewelyn or Peter Bayldon or R or Q or whatever he answers to – who can and does cut two terrorist organizations at the knees in his sleepwear. A nameless man without ties and history does the work of MI6’s best agents with minimum fallout; a nameless man without ties and history manages to tame 006 – the only man keeping Trevelyan from going postal. Psych was nearly in tears trying to quantify the unusual therapy that Q offers with minimum effort – a lack of fuss and bluster, silent invitation, a steady voice, a presence in the room, frightening competence, and an absence of fear.

Yet, there was also an incomprehensible, fatigued resignation aimed at the agents in general – as if Q was familiar with men who like to toy with innocent minds out of sheer boredom. However, the odd quirk wasn’t hampering his productivity or creativity. His current project was a modified Aston Martin db9 fitted with a nitro engine and dual type 91 Kai MANPAD rocket launchers – a present for Agent 009 though he refused to give a reason behind the unasked for though much appreciated extravagant gift – made under the pretenses of “why not.”

Agent 009’s subsequent preening has raised tensions within the base to the point that even the ever-oblivious Q was beginning to notice. Tanner had to drag the man to a pub two blocks down before Q’s paranoid twitch over a couple of custom designed fountain pens accidentally triggered a lock release on a small container holding a couple milliliters of concentrated capsaicin. “They are _hovering_ , Tanner,” Q had hissed in agitation over his beer from tap, “I didn’t realize that I still had any personal boundaries ready to be violated.” Tanner had silently eyed Q’s beer, thinking that once the man switches to scotch or, god forbid, a martini shaken not stirred, the game would be over. _They are training you for mission handling._ Tanner continued to sip his gin and tonic. _And M isn’t complaining because the success rate has never been higher._

“Thank heavens none of the other 00 agents share such obsession.” M had commented as she and Tanner watched 009 cheerfully entered the vehicle, cackling as he drove away, as 004 approached Q warily as Trevelyan bristled to ask for a pair of stilettos that would double as a radar to detect heartbeats in the vicinity and automatically contact headquarters once activated.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Q interrupted his thoughts, squinting at the establishment and the many drunken patrons at the bar, and weakly complimented, “This place is nice.” A glass cup flew from a group of rowdy college aged students situated in the corner and shattered against the floor. The bartender started cursing as she emerged with a broom and mop. Both men winced. _Not one for social niceties – at least he tries. Correction: at least he tries here – as there had been many instances where it’s obvious he made a poor effort._ “Do you come here often?”

Tanner briefly weighed the pros and cons of lying before admitting, “A few times a week whenever I have time. Pub trivia here usually revolves around history and not sports.”

“Really?” Q seemed more surprised than what his answer warranted. “This doesn’t seem your type with your –.” He gestured towards Tanner’s general direction: a loosened tie, jacket thrown over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his upper forearms, receding hairline. “Everything.”

“Am I a bore?”

Q paused a beat, “no,” he lied badly.

Sighing, Tanner leaned back into his chair and polished off his drink, “It offers a brief reprieve from what we do - a healthy outlet – the psych department terms it ‘escapism.’ How do you cope?”

Q shifted uneasily in his seat, “Ah.” Tanner gave a flat stare. “It’s nothing illegal,” Q rushed to reassure.

“Nothing illegal?” Tanner parroted doubtfully.

“You’re not going to let me,” Q laughed and mourned, “I used to get away with everything.” Like the time he had hacked into the CIA trying to look for Blackhawk schematics and caused a near diplomatic incident. Or the other time he had transferred without authorization a couple million euros into various elephant orphanages scattered in Kenya. Or that time he had bought a grandfather clock off the internet for one percent of its predicted value due to a clerical decimal ‘error’ for the nice elderly couple downstairs who feed him samosas on a nearly daily basis. “I like this,” he declared. Albeit tipsy, his eyes were still clear. “I can do this. We should do this more often.”

Bill Tanner was suddenly hit with the revelation of how absurdly lonely the Quartermaster must be and how ridiculous it is for someone to be more comfortable amongst trained killers than drunken pub patrons – and maybe it’s that aspect of his life that Bond and Trevelyan has latched onto. “Keep your schedule open then.” They make this arrangement work, somehow, between running like headless chickens organizing for the poker game in Montenegro, they shoot the breeze like normal citizens.

(A week later, Q handed him a pen that explodes, a gift for being “an upstanding fellow.”)

VII.

The first warning that James received that circumstances were moving beyond his control was a phone call he eavesdropped upon: Vesper was in the other room. “-upon you to destroy what’s left of what we had,” the woman snapped, a contrast from her typical calm. Bond checked the time on the subsonic Q-branch device that was connected to the bug planted next door: 0200. “You’ll have to show me more proof of this honeypot conspiracy and soon. Casino Royale has ears growing in unexpected places and Le Chiffre is growing more paranoid by the day. I have half of mind to take Mr Bond’s place at the table myself this evening. I know it’s dangerous but you’re not going to stop… No, you don’t under-…” The sound of an object impacting the wall followed her growl of agitation – her contact had hung up.

Bond lowered the earpiece as he stared out the window, trying to make sense of the new intel and look for distant, suspicious figures in the dark streets of Montenegro. Who was Lynd reporting to? What did this mean? Is the third player also against the financer of terrorist organizations? Why is he or she making overtures to Vesper Lynd, a FATF representative, and not the Secret Intelligence Service? What is his or her connection to the woman? Pity that Q’s gadget could not hear the other half of the conversation. “If you are sure the third party is not hostile, then the protocol is to monitor, not confront, 007, especially given how Ms Lynd was not enamored during your initial first meeting,” M had warned during his update. Then he was surrounded in silence, save for the odd conversation down the hall by hotel guests and the low thrum of running water as Vesper started the shower. He spent the next few hours staring blankly at the television on mute, wiping his guns down, before deciding to call Q-branch with five different excuses at the tip of his tongue.

“Well, well, well, Mr Bond,” Q’s amused voice sounded over the coms before he could open his mouth.

Bond leaned back, basking in the ambient noises of Q-branch – fingers tapping on the keyboard, hums of machinery: the definition of home differs for many people, “I slept on the plane. Tell me you’re pleased that I’m taking initiative.”

“I am only tangentially related to your mission, 007,” Q muttered as he turned his attention back to whatever he had been working on before he had been interrupted. Bond sighed as mechanical keyboard tapping erupted from the other end. “It is said,” Q began after a five-minute lull, “that some sleep better with nonsensical sounds. I know you absolutely hate my playlist but would you like me to read _The Master and Margarita_ to you in its original language?”

He was tempted to say yes. “Alec has taught me Russian.”

Q exhaled, “Of course you already know Russian.”

“Where is he?” James traced the elaborate design patterns on the ceiling with his eyes. The monitors at his night stand remained quiet – no intruders, no suspicious activity. Vesper’s room had long gone silent. Past the window, stratus clouds were beginning to drift in front of the full moon.

“Sleeping.”

Bond chuckled, “He’s on the couch behind you, isn’t he?” Q coughed but didn’t respond. Bond closed his eyes, senses hyperaware of the threat count on the Egyptian sheets touching his skin, of the light buzzing of the lightbulbs from the hallways outside, of the soft mutterings interrupted by sips of coffee, most likely cold brew with a dash of milk. “Did you say Yusef Kabira?” That name sounded familiar...

Q took a few seconds to compose his short answer, “He’s the Quantum operative tangentially related to your mission. I’ve been seeing his fingerprints on Le Chiffre’s guest list but have no idea how deep his influence runs. We’re watching one of his safe houses in Kazan, Russia but he hasn’t appeared. He is elusive despite everything I’m throwing including the kitchen sink.” Bond momentarily wondered if this was going to be the second time that night he hears something electronic shatter against the wall. “You’d think I would know since this has happened… second time… shit.”

“Q?” No answer. James replayed the brief conversation in his head, noting intonation and undertones. The frustration and agitation that the other man was exhibiting is out of proportion to the situation at hand; in fact, his emotional response implied a personal offense. MI6 didn’t find any connection between Q and Quantum or Le Chiffre but had silently limited the young man’s access to related intelligence when Psych noticed erratic behavior amidst discussions about the hotel Casino Royale and the players in the high stakes poker tournament. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Q lied badly. Bond rolled his eyes. Just as well – his inability to deceive is one of the main reasons M has not acted against the deception. The main consensus amongst the higher ups was that whatever Q had to hide wasn’t affecting any of his loyalties. He was altogether too valuable to eliminate bar direct treason against Queen and country.

The second warning was Vesper’s Algerian necklace which she stated curtly was a gift from her lover and didn’t elaborate further when pressed, a sore subject, perhaps even tragic, hanging low as she bent over him. The second warning was when Vesper’s scowling face reappeared in his vision after he was poisoned with Digitalis by Le Chiffre, one hand atop of the defibrillator and the other on a small bottle of Digitalis Immune Fab. “Did you trust me to be here on time?” She asked conversationally as she injected the antidote into his right triceps, “small sting,” she warned.

“Hadn’t had time to think,” Bond grunted as she pushed the plunger, “The answer is yes.”

She tucked the needle back into the first aid kit. “Despite our difficulties,” she mused, flipping her hair and staring out into the gardens, “We place trust in people with the most questionable backgrounds because they are simply there and offering.”

“Such as the person you talked to last evening?” He inquired casually after regaining his breath – she froze with her hand hovering over his suit. “I cannot make out anything with half a conversation,” he blandly assured and then added, “don’t panic.”

She glared, “James,” she cut herself off, shaking her head as if clearing an intrusive thought, “He has been freely offering information on something I’m looking for.”

 _He_. Bond mentally noted as he flexed his hands and found his strength lacking. “And his assistance is going to help us with the stakes once we return to the game?”

“Tangentially,” she hedged, eyes flickering down. “He is not your priority at this time and I hope he never will.” She straightened and Bond was suddenly hyperaware of his vulnerability at her hands. The couple was situated in a secluded spot between the view of two security cameras, their only witnesses were three albino peacocks and loud cicadas hidden in the hedges that drowned out any other noises in the immediate vicinity. The first aid kit did not hold a gun but it did contain bandage scissors and forceps. Vesper did not outright threaten but she smiled without teeth, painted lips pulling to the corners of her mouth, “Do you understand me?”

As he struggled into an upright sitting position he observed ruefully, “You were not this terrifying before.”

Vesper shrugged though seemed bemused by her own actions, “I guess it’s different when it is someone you try to protect rather than someone you try to save.” She straightened, hand briefly brushing against her necklace, and stretched her arms out, staring at the rays of sunlight that peaked through her fingers, “I just realized that I love two men in vastly different ways.”

“No doubt two very complicated relationships,” He muttered as he staggered to his feet.

“And you don’t have any currently in your life?” she asked tartly as she turned, strutting in a way that had her heels tapping harshly against the pavement, “You and your ego and your arrogance and your coldness.” She looked over her shoulder, “Go on. What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Surprisingly,” he replied with a satisfied smirk as he adjusted his tie and cracking his neck, “My relationships are healthy and stable.”

She didn’t hear him.

The third warning was after Mr White executed Le Chiffre at the man’s own boathouse and Vesper, who was recovering from rope burns and knife wounds, asked Bond, who was recovering from a whipping and near castration, “Where did you get that?” She pointed at the cauterizer disguised as a pen which he had used to cut through his binds.

“MI6 Quartermaster,” he had said distractedly as he dragged the banker’s cooling corpse to a chair and unceremoniously propped him against the seat back. “On your feet Ms Lynd, we have company.”

Giving the gadget one last curious glance, Vesper hummed and turned her attention back towards the gun in her hands, a standard Glock, pilfered from Le Chiffre’s pockets, “I recognize that design of roll engraving,” she stated blandly, tone neither betraying hint nor emotion. “Was this what he was afraid of?” She gave Mr White and his men a considering look, “It hurts,” she pressed her chest, two fingers holding the slim chain of her beloved necklace. “This was not part of the bargain.”

Bond didn’t understand.

Then, Vesper opened fire, shoots one of the Quantum men between his eyes before everyone was scrambling for their own guns. Bond reached out as she was shot twice in quick succession in the shoulder and lateral chest, returning bullets when he was able. Rushing blood roared in his ears as adrenaline forced Mr White’s shouting and Ms Lynd’s screaming into a cacophony of indistinguishable sounds. “Can you hear me, Yusef?!” Vesper yelled between gritted teeth, wiping sweat-matted hair from her face with a bloody hand. Mr White is cradling a hand to his earpiece as she continued, even as more of her body became littered with holes, “I hope you are listening right now,” and pulled out a grenade from seemly thin air and, without hesitation, pulled the pin. Bond dived for cover as heat prickled the back of his neck and the soundwave mixed with a distant motor and water on deck. Her scream was not of a woman in pain or in fear of death but of a woman scorned. And then…

Vesper Lynd, to her credit, managed to kill three men though three more are in critical condition and will most likely perish in the next few hours. The boat, miraculously, was still floating though the engine was dead. In the ringing silence, he did a quick inventory of his injuries, running a tongue over his teeth, testing his weight on both legs, before stepping over the rapidly cooling bodies to the woman who managed to prop herself up against the winch and the rope. The red blood running down her mouth was seemly contiguous with her red lipstick in the midday sun. Her pulse at her wrist was weak and rapid.

She has ink-black hair and bright eyes, clear complexion, and a bone structure that pulls at his memory. At a certain angle, at a certain angle, at a certain expression – she looks like… if she wore spectacles… “James,” she sighed; he drew back and then placed two fingers on her carotid. She turned towards the gentle touch, eyes unseeing, “I wasn’t enough. I’m sorry.” Then she was silent.

After closing her eyelids, Bond closed his eyes and exhaled slowly to the count of ten. Then, he cleared his throat and tapped his wrist, “Agent 007 reporting. Lynd went rogue and downed six Quantum members before…” He swallowed, “Mr White is not among the dead and has escaped with two other men. I am alone. Mission success. Awaiting orders.”

“Good job, 007. Q, go and ready the extraction team.” The murmur and static in the background crackled lightly, overcame by the sound of the waves hitting the yacht portside, “ETA forty minutes. Your ride will take you to the airport where an escort will direct you to our plane. Any questions?”

Bond paused, “Does Ms Lynd have any remaining family?”

“Orphan. Her parents had died six years ago in a light aircraft accident. Her brother had changed his name and left the country with no paper trail.” When she didn’t receive a response, she asked, “007?”

He tossed his watch into the water. He waited.

Not a word was spoken on the helicopter to the liaison who accepted his blood-stained briefcase of cash nor on the plane where flight attendants offered him a blanket, a hot towel, and a martini. A flight attendant made a moue of displeasure when he turned down the evening meal as they passed over France and ordered a scotch. He stretched out languidly at his seat, propping his head with his arm, loosening the tie at his neck and undoing the first two buttons, as he scrolled through the contacts on his phone, wondering who to call or if he should call at all. Alec, M, Q, Alec, M, Q…

Many people tend to underestimate Bond’s intelligence after seeing his prowess on the field, as if the two skills were mutually exclusive, as if MI6 was comfortable training their finest into nothing more than brute force, a grenade with only a one-time use guarantee. James Bond has survived many explosions by quickly identifying the exit route either through doorways, walls, or people. He can read the micro-expressions on his targets’ faces as he coaxed secrets that were wrapped tightly around their hearts. He was capable of making a logic jump from A to D.

MI6 was currently staffed by the night shift, a few security guards and maintenance technicians who make sure the compound was alert around the clock all around the world. A security guard waved him in the side door, a woman in a smart suit and coiffed hair did not look up from her clipboard, a technician ran by with a thermos of coffee. Nobody greeted him as he strolled into Q branch. He could almost hear M’s nagging in his right ear to start writing his mission report. But his mind was still focused on the many clues, all leading to an odd set of conclusions that he wasn’t ready to accept for a multitude of reasons. Following the distant sounds of keystrokes, he opened a nondescript door on the right without knocking, and sure enough, there was Q, working on a database that encompassed three monitors. Q did not glance up and Bond took a moment to appreciate the cosmic joke and irony.

Because when Vesper said his name, she wasn’t talking to him. “James Lynd,” Q’s hands froze over the keyboard. “Younger brother of Vesper Lynd.” Bond didn’t break stride and began to circle around the younger man. Q still did not move, though his eyes continued to track his movements through his messy bangs. Bond smiled: the resemblance was there if one only knew where to look – however, no one has considered the possibility nor the coincidence. He placed a hand on Q’s nape, squeezed, and leaned into his ear, “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t tell anyone.”

“I haven’t heard of that name in years,” Q gave a shaky exhale before he tilted his head back, “There are no reasons.” Then his eyes narrowed, “How much do you know?”

“Oh?” Bond mused with some levity, “There’s more then?” His determination must have reflected onto his eyes for Q inadvertently took a step back. But Bond didn’t mind and kept pressing. There was something that still needed to be solved, questions that still needed to be answered – and it revolved not around Q’s estranged family but his mannerisms and habits. It was the oddness in Bond’s deductions – giving rise to possibilities that he had gone over and over in his head twelve thousand meters above sea level without recourse because they were unfathomable. “What should I know? Should I have been able to deduce your inconsistent skills at interpreting mission intelligence? How are you able to predict when and how Le Chiffre is going to poison me or how he was going to tie me down? And wasn’t it coincidental how you supplied the minimum required necessary supplies to set me free?” However, if every other explanation is ruled out, then one could only rationalize…

By this point, Q was backed into the wall, bracketed on both sides by Bond’s arms, “Now isn’t this familiar?” Q murmured.

Bond inclined his head, “More you than I.” He searched for an expression and found cracks in the younger man’s mien: a bit of fury, a bit of grief, a bit of terror, a bit of defiance. “I had thought that you were close to someone in your past who reminded you of me, brutes with expensive tastes, specialists who balance on the precipice between danger and death. But no: you somehow perceive, experience – you have in your possession extra knowledge here,” he tapped Q’s temple, “an advantage.”

“It’s not an advantage when Vesper still dies,” Q snapped pushing futilely against his chest, gripping fistfuls of his lapels. “What is the point of knowing when you are still helpless to the inevitable?”

“No matter how you word it, you still have it. And… Look at me… Q, look at me.” Q glared. “There we go. Tell me one event that will happen, what you think I should know, and I will not tell anyone.”

Moments pass from one dialogue to the next. Q seemed to weigh the pros and cons of door number two, staring at Bond, then over his shoulder towards the worktable, then towards the door, then to the nearby shelf… It was easy to pinpoint the second he relented to his appeals: he had wilted, hands dropping to his side as his gaze focused and matched Bond’s own. Immediately after, he looked away and he said, “M died at Skyfall.”

VIII.

The future is an uncertain monster. The end never comes. After Bond releases him, Q staggers into the nearest chair, wincing as the four leg tips screeches over the tile floor, collapsing into a rumpled pile of lethargy and hysteria. Drained down to the marrow of his bones, he finally succumbs to the emotional flood as the day’s events caught up with the rest of the insanity in his life. Of all the places to have a breakdown, it had to be with James Bond in the basement of Six. He pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes and tries to count his breaths. What is the fucking point of knowing what will happen if life stubbornly keeps to the same road and people still die? It’s like looking down and watching your feet slip over the edge of a precipice - he’ll be gone again before the age of 40.

Bond paces the room, back and forth from the wall containing accolades of past Quartermasters to the wall that held a framed oil painting of an unnamed man with a monocle and a Persian cat. “Patrice was hired blind two degrees of separation from Raoul Silva-”

“Tiago Rodriguez,” Q absentmindedly corrects.

“Raoul Silva,” James reiterates. “With unclear connections to SPECTRE.”

“The information is not much help, I apologize. His relation to that organization is not relevant until years down the road. There is simply have too much on our hands now.” He points out, grimacing as he adjusts his glasses and reaches into his desk, pulling out a tablet and initiating data transfer, watching as a little bar at the bottom of the screen begin to fill from left to right, “You need to first bring down Quantum. You’ve already read my report on Mr White and Kabira but I’m not sure where they stand on the hierarchy. The leadership may have shuffled since the shifts in the timeline.”

James takes the tablet and begins reading, “What has changed?”

Q smiles ruefully, tapping his fingers restlessly against the table, “What hasn’t? I started my career here much earlier than anticipated. People who are supposed to be dead are alive. People I want to live are dead. You…” He squints at Bond, “Did not fall in love with my sister.”

“Oh?”

It was like trying to narrate a dream; he had so many things to say and no ways to say it. “You had… have a reputation of a womanizer and yet, as I observed, the irony is how easily you fall in love,” Vesper’s ghostly, bruising grip on Bond’s heart took years to dissipate. “You retired with her to Venice after Montenegro but she still hadn’t finished,” He moved his gaze to his sleeves, “her other objective.” For what it’s worth, he was gratified and humbled that Vesper Lynd had deigned to listen to her estranged brother’s panicked ramblings after nearly a decade of bitter silence typical of dysfunctional family relationships. It was not to say that she developed a change of heart for Storge over Eros but… well, their last words spoken to one another had not been pleasant. Insults had been thrown about passion and the lack of it. He had accepted her death in the first life but had hoped in the deepest pits of his heart where a Vesper-shaped hole laid that in the second life… No. It still hurts.

“Psych once postulated it to be reason for my unparalleled success rate,” James finishes scrolling and drums against the tablet with his fingers as he confirms, “Her lover, Yusef Kabira, is the honeypot.”

“A modified version, yes. His success rate is not one to sniff at.” The lights above his head flickered insistently and the switch to the electric kettle pops. “I couldn’t let this happen; it wasn’t fair to her memory. So, I contacted her, gave her a fighting chance, provided proof and, after her initial skepticism,” he inhales and slowly exhales, “we were never close and I had hoped that her advantage would allow her to plan and I trusted her to stay alive but instead… Instead…” He glances at his hands and sees flecks of blood beneath his nails. He blinks and the blood turns into dirt. Maybe the predestination doctrine is true in a twisted manner. Maybe there is truly nothing to be done.

James finally stops pacing, coming to a halt at the corner of his workbench, “Did you travel back to save her?”

“I didn’t intend to come back.” James lifts an eyebrow and Q elaborates, “Bond, I died on a bad mission and I woke up in my apartment without a clue as to how I ended up there. Immediately, I was given the chance to avenge my parents’ death, something that was not offered… before due to my once lack of ability. Hours later, you and Alec were knocking down my door.”

“You didn’t erase your search history.”

Q flashes a wry smile, “That’s how you figured it out? Your mind deserves commendation and accolades for making the impressive leap in logic. Still, not everyone who looks up the Alcubierre metric should be suspected of time travel.”

“True, but I know you now.” James calmly replies, “Boothroyd may have thought your interests were a passing fancy but it’s obvious to me that you hardly do anything by halves.” His attention moves elsewhere: towards the various appliances and contraptions in differing states of completion – a laser directed scope sat next to a halved bazooka, diamond cufflinks fitted with radio, a miniature screen monitoring unrest in Jordan. “Where was I, when you died?”

“Hmm?” Q lifts his head. _You were by my side though only you would know why you decided to stay._ “Oh, you retired years ago.”

James frowns at the implications. “And you….”

“Still serving Queen and Country.”

“Alec?”

“Dead.”

One of the lightbulbs above them flickers and dies. One of the aged generators sputters in the corner before restarting. James scrutinizes him and states, “I hadn’t known your name.”

 _For that I was grateful._ “Of course you hadn’t. First of all, it’s yours – I told you, I haven’t been called James in a long time. I’m more used to my other aliases like Desmond or Peter but even those died quick.” He briefly wonders if Bond identifies more with 007 than James but decides not to ask. He struggles to conjure a scenario where the reveal might have happened and ends up with something resembling a Monty Python sketch, “Q fits me the best, despite it being a mere designation. Telling you back then would’ve detracted attention from my actual skills; I was already in the spotlight enough due to my age.” What a delight it had been on his first day at Six, standing at R’s right and Q’s left, behind M, watching on screen as James Bond stalked between bystanders at a high-end bar disguised as a front for human trafficking, introducing himself to the paramour of the mob boss with his trademark smirk and  – _the name is Bond, James Bond_ – and the woman had sighed and fanned herself at the exact moment that R had sighed and fanned herself. Any plan he had been entertaining on rectifying the gossip that his name began with -Q- flew straight out the window. “I didn’t share my last name out of respect,” Q adds. Lynd would have invited unwanted attention, triggered unwanted memories, a perfect combination that would have been both provoking and instigating.

“We were not close.”

Here, Q pauses and tries to decipher where Bond was trying to lead with this conversation. “No,” he agrees cautiously, “We were not.”

James Bond gives Q an arctic, indecipherable look. Q stares back, defiant and confused. Was that… the wrong thing to say? It was obvious with Bond’s questions that he was trying to paint a picture of Q’s past and future. Was Bond displeased with his brief glimpse into what could have been? Was there even such thing as a wrong answer when it’s the truth? Besides their initial disastrous exchange at the National Gallery and perfunctory banter when giving and receiving tech, they had not interacted at all. _We were not close_. - Unlike now where James and Alec constantly sought him out during their downtime between missions when they were bored as if searching for strange bedfellows where espionage overtakes misery. “I am sorry for your loss,” James says stiffly and with that, he is gone.

… _What…?_

Q slumps further into his chair, staring blankly at the opposite wall, before rubbing hard at his face, rewinding their exchange. _We were talking on two separate wavelengths._ It is impossible to comprehend the other man’s line of thought. Q tilts his head back and sighs.

They do not talk for the next few days or weeks, even as MI6 prep their agents and lay out a sound strategy to take down Quantum. There was not enough time in a day to sit down and talk out their feelings and Q isn’t particularly an emotional man to begin with and he is fairly certain Bond would rather lose both his legs before undergoing another session with Psych. He feigns ignorance towards the lingering shadows in the corners that disappear when he turns his head. Instead of confronting his friend turned stalker, he buries himself in his work, gathering intelligence for the organization’s public figurehead, Dominic Greene, and its lesser known puppet-master, Mr White. As always, SPECTRE, the ultimate puppet master, lies like a sleeping dragon in the back of his mind – so constant that Q often dreams of the trademark octopus silhouette.

The situation was so delicate that M had taken it upon herself to oversee the operation on site at La Paz, Bolivia after the assassination attempt on her in Siena, Italy by a bodyguard turned traitor. Trevelyan stands at Q’s right at the bowels of Q-branch. Nine monitors show nine mirror images of a young figure dipped in crude oil and draped over white sheets. Behind the corpse, 007 and M are conversing quietly as Q types a command and the nine scenes magnified into one. “Is that Ms Fields?” Alec asks with raised eyebrows, chin resting on Q’s shoulder, speaking into his earpiece, “Good god, James, they are getting more creative with the way that they murder your lovers. It’s oddly poetic.”

Agent 007 promptly drops his own earpiece and crushes it beneath his boot. Q resists the urge to facepalm, “006, if you don’t stay quiet, I’ll outfit your next trip with a 2mm kolibri.” Alec glowered but kept reticent as Q receives a message from a third party. Another state of the art creation: noise cancelling, gold standard, high definition, microphonic buds with balanced-armature receivers, years ahead of its time, thousands of pounds of R&D funding and unspeakable number of all-nighters poured into the gadget’s development, all gone in a fit of pique. “M? Q-branch has just lost audio with 007.”

“I saw,” M replies in an equally flat tone as she switches the acoustics to speakerphone, “Please send for a retrieval team to bring Ms Fields back to her family for proper burial. Q, why is 006 with you?”

Before Q could even open his mouth, Alec interjects, “I haven’t broken our agreement, M.”

“The definition of sanctuary revolves around a location, not a person.”

“He isn’t being a bother, M,” Q coughs as he processes an encrypted communication, “I’ll get him to shut up if he’s being an annoyance and he knows better than to jeopardize the operation.” Alec grumbles again as Q shifts his stance, “M, can you inform 007 that we’ve received overtures from a CIA agent, Felix Leiter, asking to rendezvous at a local bar? I’m forwarding the missive over.”

“Acknowledged,” Bond mutters before leaving the room.

After briefly scanning the hotel room for the seventh time for bugs, M waits for the door to close behind her before asking quietly, “Leiter? From Montenegro?”

“Yes,” Q affirms, “Felix Leiter had backed 007 with the five million buy in. He is currently undercover – Quantum does not know of his presence.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” She mutters, smoothing down the front of her jacket, “We do not need any more collateral, especially from those across the pond.” With her face angling away from the camera, he cannot see her expression as she stares at the body, “Another death of a talented agent targeted at 007; he is a threat to both friend and foe. I have half of mind to disarm him and end his activities.”

It is only after a minute of prolonged silence, punctuated by the sound of Alec clearing his throat, that Q peers up from his satellite tracking system, blushing as he realizes that the woman was waiting for an answer. “That is not my call to make, M,” Q says carefully.

“But you disagree.”

Q closes his eyes in thought. Last timeline, M had ordered Bond back to England with little effect. “Me disagreeing will do nothing compared to him disagreeing. He’ll take down Quantum whether you like it or not.” As a rogue agent or not.

“Careful with your tone,” she reprimands half-heartedly, “I can replace you at any moment.”

“Not with the number of projects I have half finished. Give me a year notice at least,” Q replies cheekily as he adverts his gaze from the main monitor and starts assessing the town for incoming American special forces. M wordlessly cut the coms. Q shakes his head as he disengages his speaker.

 _Replacement…_ Which reminds him that he should check up on R at the University of Edinburgh and ask Tanner to help him script a classic recruitment pitch. Her talents at drone espionage and satellite imagery would be very appreciated right now and if she wasn’t trying to finish the last of her graduation requirements in the humanities (SCIL08001 Advanced Urban Sociology), he would’ve abducted her from Scotland last week. (And then after ushering R under his wing, he can then collect other members of his handpicked developmental team. Requisites when he was initially hiring had been competency at computers defined as the ability to hack into _Direction du Renseignement Militaire_ in a forty-eight hour time period and a solid knowledge base on D &D just so they could play during the interim with their characters as 00 agents. There is just so many things that still needs to be done…)

Eventually, as the players and participants panic and betray one another, Quantum slowly fragments into a million shattered pieces of what it once was. Once he hears that Bond’s plane has landed safely in Heathrow, Q leaves Vauxhall Cross, hails a cab, stumbles into his flat twenty minutes later, cursing as he steps onto a voice-activated vacuum, collapses into his bed, and sleeps for a full eighteen hours. MI6 calms to the pace of normal operations for the record of three straight days before M calls Q at four in the morning amidst the background of angry car horns from early commuters on his end and minor explosions on hers.

“There is reason to believe that a heist will soon be conducted to steal a solid-state drive with all the names of NATO agents operating undercover in various terrorist organizations.” Between sentences, Tanner gets into a shouting match with 002. “You are expected to report to Six ASAP to outfit a man and a woman for Istanbul, Turkey.” M hangs up.

Q forces himself into a sitting position, wincing as his back pops and protests, and blinks blearily at his phone screen which cheerfully reminds him that it is his turn to buy the feed for the communal Shetland sheepdog and that his black tea selection needs to be restocked. He lays his forehead atop his knees and counts to fourteen before throwing the covers off and, while shivering from the cold, getting dressed.

It is raining.

Bond and Eve Moneypenny were already waiting at their respective benches in the main workroom at Q-branch by the time he rushes in, shoes squeaking with water, hair sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He gives Bond the usual kit: radio, Walther PPK/S, and four bricks of Semtex attached to a voice recognition and activated trigger packed into a hidden compartment of his carryon. He gives Eve Moneypenny a Barrett .416 model 99 sniper rifle with a case designed to evade airport security.  Then, after many weeks of tense silence between them, Bond finally talks, “Patrice?” in a timbre that divulges none of the strained atmosphere that had lingered and suddenly dissipated with a single word.

Q falters as he sorts through the cartridges, “Yes,” and decides not to press the matter on social awareness and blunders.

The edges of Bond’s lips curl, “And so it begins,” he straightens to his full height, eyes glinting in excitement like a predator on the hunt. Rubbing his face with a sleeve, Q huffs a shaky laugh, reveling in the thrum of blood roaring in his ears, as the metaphorical engine starts, gently urging a vehicle down a steep slope with no intention of pulling on the brakes. He could drown in his own agitation and would’ve welcomed the waters if not for a hand pressing on his neck, fingers curling around and grazing his Adam’s apple. “She will not die.”

“Past experiences have told me otherwise.”

“You didn’t factor in your lack of hubris this turn. You also didn’t factor in myself.” James insists, causing Q to raise an eyebrow in disbelief. Arrogant diction from an arrogant man – as expected – but point made, though not taken. “Upload what you remember to the tablet, I’ll read it on the plane.” Q’s expression does not change. Bond sighs, “Q, trust me.”

Trust the singular man with the license to kill, whose aim holds true, who holds hearts and twists necks with insulting ease. Q’s gaze moves reluctantly up and searches the man’s visage, seeing trepidation under stoicism, and realizes that standing before him was someone waiting for his reckoning. James Bond is a man who would rather take any form of punishment to avoid giving a verbal apology. In a way, his willingness to submit to utter humiliation was his version of atonement. Q can say anything to dig his fingers into the wound releasing acerbity that can cut and burn… Q says, “Safe travels, Mr Bond,” and offers him the luggage handle. James’ momentary relief is almost immediately replaced by Agent 007’s hard gaze but as the man leaves with an operative’s stride, it is James who waves without looking back in a lazy farewell.

“He does that a lot?” Moneypenny muses with eyes scanning appreciatively over the well-cut figure dressed in a Kilgour (8 Savile Row) bespoke suit, whistling as Bond passes the doorway and disappears around the corner, “All that self-assuredness in that nice package.”

Q hums ambivalently and allows himself to get distracted by the golden gleam of the cartridges, each with an embedded tracker that will attach to the bullet once heated. He checks the scope, the detachable carry handle, and the muzzle brake before flicking the catching, catching the magazine and tucking it beside the handguard.

“The rumors did not do your relationship justice. I thought they were overselling the extent that Bond does,” she flicks a wrist at empty space, “all this and turns out it’s the opposite. Did you know that M had actually sent out a memo to all the inbound operatives telling us to mind our own business?” Then she inquires shamelessly with her crisp Estuary English dialect, “Are you two shagging?” Q shakes his head while warily side-eyeing her. “Oh, then,” She amends, “Do you fancy him?”

 _What a puzzling question._ “Doesn’t everyone?” His response catches her off-guard with its insouciance and verisimilitude – after all, it is practically a rite of passage within Six to have, at some point or another, a flaming crush on James Bond. Now how people dealt with that infatuation is another matter entirely, ranging from sleeping with the agent until one of the pair tires from the arrangement or simply never talking to him – ever, depending on one’s gender. Q had thought that Bond was as straight as an arrow; now, he is not so certain. He dissembles the rest of the rifle, packs the pieces into a metal briefcase, and closes the lid, watching as the light by the latches turn from green to red. He then hands the briefcase to her with a flourish, “Safe travels, Ms Moneypenny.”

IX.

While on the plane, Bond had pressed for details that even Q struggled to give. What was the model of the motorcycle that Patrice took through the streets of Istanbul? Where did Bond stand on the train when M ordered Moneypenny to take the shot? How long had he been “missing, presumed dead” as he was licking his wounds? How long did Silva expound on his allegory consisting of rats committing cannibalism in trapped oil drums. What are Severine’s favored brand of cigarettes? The list goes on. Q answers to the best of his ability and grits his teeth in frustration when the agent refuses to disclose what he was planning to do with the information.

Q isn’t sure what to expect regarding the route Bond was going to take and proceeds to prepare for the inevitable, dreading the worst as it wouldn’t be out of the realm of possibility for a 00 agent to leave behind a hole in the ground roughly the size and shape of Istanbul. Will Bond veer off the beaten path early or late into the game? Does he plan to go rogue as he had while taking down Quantum? Would he seek Severine and bypass Patrice or will the mercenary and the solid-state drive be blown up by liberal amounts of Semtex, leaving Silva safely ensconced from public eye? Somewhere in Six, there is a poster with ink fingerprints and tea stains that extends from floor to ceiling depicting a flow chart of possibilities. There are so many choices available – so many better options than _taking a lethal shot while fighting hand to hand on a moving train, really Bond_?!

Q resisted the urge to slap his forehead as Moneypenny announced over the coms in a strangled voice, “Agent down.” The poor woman will need therapy. _Again_. M mutters something that causes a few mouths from the peanut gallery to drop and rushes out of the room with a few people specializing in damage control as Patrice disappears into the mountain tunnel. Her chief of staff dogs her heels.

As the current highest authority in the room, Q calls for order and makes a valiant effort to search for the mercenary but quickly lose him in the underground tunnels. Cursing the lack of surveillance equipment, he slowly turns off the television screens one by one and as the last image winks out of existence, a notification alerts rings on his phone. “Hmm,” he mutters as he pulls up his GPS and enhanced the northwest corner of Turkey, watching as his locator meander downstream the Kagithane Deresi, “already on the move?” He debates for two seconds on whether to inform anyone else of his findings before deciding to trust the agent to do what he does best: regenerate like a phoenix and overcome impossible odds.

“Don’t search for me,” Bond had ordered before he boarded the plane. The word -search- as Q interprets means sending people out for agent retrieval, so it should be fine if he tracks but does not follow. As Q organizes transportation for Moneypenny back to LHR (making sure to book first class), he keeps an idle eye on the sniper bullet as it ducks into a hospital by the river and stays. Nothing else of note shows on his sensors until early next morning when his cameras spot a familiar-looking figure embarking upon a pleasure yacht with a woman clad tastefully in thin silks.

Well.

On Thursday, five names with detailed profiles and identification photos appear in every major news outlet website and popular forum. Despite Q’s best efforts, the Streisand effect rings true and three were killed before he could initiate contact let alone devise a way to get them to safety. One escapes with the time-honored tradition consisting of explosions with thankfully only singed eyebrows to show for her efforts and one hides in the attic of a British embassy on Q’s orders. “It’s more than we can ask for,” Tanner assures as he mops sweat from his brow with a handkerchief, “We’ll move more tech support your way. Anything you want, you’ll have it.” M was constantly called away to different meetings and different press conferences regarding Six’s involvement in the intelligence cock-up, leaving her most trusted to deal with the other side of the chaos. Gareth Mallory from the ISC of Parliament was reported to have been seen roaming the halls with a keen eye, unruffled by the wary and hostile glances aimed at his person from various loyal employees.

Days pass fluidly from one to another as Q and his staff struggle to set up escape routes for more than a hundred agents scattered around the world. It is like playing the lottery except you pray that the weekly unlucky five were the ones you had prepared adequately for. Hours drag by, overlaid by an off-gray, sepia tone that is belied by a sense of restlessness. Q had sent Trevelyan to a hostage situation in Tbilisi, Georgia and the only person keeping him company on a semi-reliable basis was Tanner who made sure he was watered and fed. Eve Moneypenny stopped by twice to reacquaint herself with large armaments for her cognitive behavioral therapy. Days pass and Mallory stops by Q branch on a Sunday, watching him work without a word from sun up to sun down. The encounter leaves him somewhat stressed and frazzled.

His disposition is that of a frayed wire by midnight with the number of emergencies he is juggling. Worst yet, the bombing on MI6 headquarters is supposed to occur tomorrow and he has no hint of any suspicious activity: no clue, no leads. By the time he leaves Six, only Tanner remains, tie undone and sleeves rolled up his forearms, giving an absentminded wave as he talks on the phone to someone in Beijing. Half an hour later, Q trudges up the stairs to his flat with his briefcase slung over a shoulder, yawning from the mere memory of his bed. He presses his full weight against the door, hand twisting the ornate doorknob - _Someone is on the other side_.

Q closes his eyes. _Shit._ Basic defense was taught to all persons at MI6 during employee orientation and registration specialized for body types and preferred method of take down. The R&D techs favor their own inventions whether it’d be extendable batons, phones that hide diamond points and hot lasers, or even chakrams that only reveal its edge with positive recognition of certain fingerprints. Tanner was old fashioned, packing in a Glock 17 and a small vial of sodium cyanide. There was a reason why Moneypenny buys skirts and cropped jackets with spacious pockets. Legend has it that M could bring any man down with the bulldog figurine that stands proudly at the corner of her desk, a gag gift from Boothroyd. Q presses an ear against the wood and hears his own labored breathing. _Why wasn’t his own multi-tiered security system responding?_ He slowly draws his modified Taser and holds it at waist level as he opens the door to see… It’s dark. He squints at the shadows as arcs of lightning provide minimal light, wary of the shadows where anyone could jump out and take –

“Q.”

Q stumbles back, grip spasming on his weapon of choice. As his eyes adjust, he notes a silhouette sitting on his couch, nursing Q’s Chivas Regal 18 straight from the bottle. He gropes for the light switch, infusing the room with a warm glow, revealing a man who displays more bandages than actual skin - unmistakable blond hair, artic gaze, and signature Kilgour suit, “Bloody fuck, Bond.”

“Language,” James chides with a light smirk, raising his drink in a mock toast.

“Keep your snide comments to yourself until after I restart my heart,” Q shoots back, tucking away his weapon and running a hand through his hair. A quick glance about the living room assures him that he wouldn’t need to replace any of his meticulous set up. Nothing was touched. His sensors still register one person in the general area. The electroshock tripwires by the windows had not been set off. “Why are you here?”

Bond pours some Chivas Regal into a glass that he had procured from Q’s kitchen cabinets and adds a few drops of water. Q takes the drink as it slides across the wood and inhales, picking out individual aromas of old wood and smoke. “I had a quick tete-a-tete with M about Silva – she had asked me where I came to find the name and suffice to say I pointed her in your general direction. I suggest you find a reason by tomorrow morning.”

“Lovely,” Q mutters as he takes a sip and grimaces as the angle of the light jostles at his developing migraine. “You’ve yet to answer my question.”

“I have been gone for so long they canceled my lease and moved my belongings into storage,” then abandoning all sense of propriety, Bond takes a long swig over Q’s indignations and finishes the bottle, “I was looking for someone willing to put me up for a few days. Are you going to kick me out into the streets?” He tilts his head back; the alcohol makes his eyes that much sharper and inviting, “Think of Trevelyan’s reaction when he learns of this. He will eat crow.”

Sighing, Q places his glass down and pads to the closet, absentmindedly pushing a fist to his sternum as if pressure can sooth his still racing heart, “Let me see if I have fresh linens for you.” He peers over his shoulder at his guest lounging in a manner like that of a panther basking in his territory, searching for any aches and pains with a critical eye, “Do you need any bandages?”

James shifts gingerly, “I’ve wrapped everything. No need for additional first aid,” he assures with forced levity as he winces upon standing, grumbling, “Hold your tongue. I got enough mother-henning earlier today from M of all people.”

After concluding that James isn’t bleeding through his dressings and that his main injuries seems to be muscle related with no association with bone or internal organs, Q says, “You know, one of the reasons I told you everything I remembered about the mission was to avoid you getting shot, not so you can recreate the conditions.”

James hums noncommittally, brushes past Q, and steps into the hallway, “It was too risky to start changes before my ‘death.’ Silva’s first lure is the drive and he will emerge soon with his attention on MI6’s public image.” Then he adds, “With your shared files, I managed to track down Severine but didn’t establish contact.”

 _The anti-heroine Bond girl:_ the inner voice that sounds like R helpfully informs him. “You… what?”

James glances back and elaborates, “You had informed me that she died on my account due to my interest. I wouldn’t risk her life if she has nothing to give me of use that I can’t find for myself, not when she already unknowingly led me to Patrice who was planting bombs around Six.” He pauses thoughtfully, “If you have time, see if you can extract her from Silva’s side. She’s a nice girl and bears the mark of a slave – it’ll be a shame if she’s caught in the cross fires.” _A nice girl._ Q thinks numbly. This from a man who, if Eve had regaled her tale correctly in the first timeline, had stalked the woman to her yacht and eventually her showers. “I then killed Patrice, chatted with M,” broke into M’s house, “and now I am here, completely yours.”

Though Q knows that he should be feeling relieved that the agent had prevented the fatal explosion at MI6 offices that had killed eight people, his mind still can’t circle around the fact that, “You evaded every single CCTV in London.”

James shrugs, offensively nonchalant.

“Right,” Q murmurs as he leans against the wall, “Anything you need me to do then?”

“You underestimated Silva’s obsession in me,” Bond warns after a long pause, “He sees himself in me or that I will eventually become him. Though his priority is still revenge against M, I have reason to believe that he has been gathering information on my classified background and the ancestral hou...” His voice falls away and he breaks eye contact, a shadow falling across his eyes.

“You believe that the two constants for this mission will be M and Skyfall,” Q finishes grimly. Skyfall – The name could trigger the man into frenzy if the speaker did not respect the memory, as Psych had found out the hard way during his evaluations. “Are you up for it?” Bond wordlessly nods. “Then you’ll need to contact Kincade to prep the area. I can supply incendiaries and any ammo you require.”

“Kincade…” Bond laughs without humor, “Of course you would know about Kincade.” He shakes his head and starts loosening the tie about his neck, his eyes regaining their characteristic, predatorial gleam, “I’ll pass the message along. You’ll need to supply enough for us and one extra.”

“M?”

“I’ve included M in the ‘us.’ I’m talking of Alec.” After removing his tie, James grabs a towel from a side rack and heads to the bathroom as he works on his cufflinks, “I think it’s time to clue him into your predicament, wouldn’t you say? He’s beginning to suspect.”

“Alec’s flight does not come in until tomorrow morning.” Q points out as his mind reels from the abrupt change in topic: M to Silva to Severine to Skyfall to Trevelyan. He had been anticipating this discussion for a long time, as Alec needs and deserves to know, but Q didn’t think the timing would be so... unideal – but in a way, anticipating does not mean planning – so he tries his best not to think about the whens and hows. In a way, confessing to Alec would magnify the sensation of being existentially trapped, of being helpless against non-Euclidean postulates – and Q is not a particularly emotional man.

“Excellent,” James shrugs off his jacket and undoes shirt buttons, “We can pick him up and tell him en route to Six.”

Q flounders. _En… Route…_ “Perhaps in a more controlled setting?” 006 was known for his volatile temper both on and off missions, known to suffer for no fools and at times to show his displeasure physically. To sit with him in a moving car while revealing his secret might be asking for too much luck from any deity.

“Nonsense. There is no need to be so circumspect,” James waves away his concerns as he undoes his belt and drops his trousers. “He’ll be charmed. He may even laugh.” He steps out of his clothing and then gives Q a considering glance before leaning in, “Don’t worry your pretty little head,” and then his consideration turns into an open leer. “Now.” Suddenly aware of their proximity and Bond’s state of undress of which he has on nothing but boxer shorts, Q takes an unintentional step back and very deliberately does not direct his gaze down, “I am going to take a shower,” James purrs, dragging his index finger carefully down Q’s cheek, “it is usually a personal and intimate occasion. Unless you plan on joining me, we will talk later.” With that, the bathroom door shuts, the water starts, and the steam begins to pool from the cracks. Q realizes belatedly that Bond has been dominating the conversation since the start and had been taking pleasure in keeping him off-kilter. He stares disbelievingly.

“Fuck you,” he says emphatically to the closed door without much heat.

X.

Combing through academia for any breakthroughs in space time geometries and the four types of null geodesics was akin to throwing a rock off a cliff and hoping that it flies. All the papers he had read gave none of the answers he wanted: how and most importantly, why him – why Q? He had never, in this life or his last, interacted with professors in the field of metaphysics and can’t imagine anything he had done to have been made a target.

Time is malleable, exactly as experts had postulated – and wasn’t it a pleasant surprise to learn that nothing was inevitable? _The inevitability of time…_ Q frowns in thought as he sits on a familiar bench in the Joseph Turner room of the National Gallery, staring at _The Fighting Temeraire_ , recalling that time years ago when he used the painting as a way to taunt 007, connecting the agent with the _grand old war ship, being ignominiously hauled away to scrap. The inevitability of time, don’t you think?_ He had watched Bond’s face grow into something dangerous with the insult, but Q had a point to get across and was making sure his message struck true and hurt: a warning, a prediction, a promise.

They represented the two sides of espionage in an ever-changing world and there was only one person who truly embraced both. Raoul Silva not only saw himself in Bond, but also saw himself in Q. Perhaps he was a combination of their worst parts that embody field agent instincts and computer expertise, meshed together into one villain, promptly betrayed by M. And the most frightening part is this – Q has the power to bring the world to its knees for ten days at most before he inevitably ends up with a bullet between his eyes. There is a strange sense of finality with that realization: that he can be evil – that he had the choice to meet MI6 on the opposite side of the battlefield.

“There you are. James, I found him.” Q turns around as Alec enters with his hands in his jacket pockets, a common stance he adopts when out in public, quickly followed by Bond who lopes in at a more sedated pace. “Your coworkers led us on a merry chase when we asked for your whereabouts.”

“It’s my day off,” half protest, half accusation, half resignation. It’s no secret in Q-Branch that he comes here more often than not: a stroll by the Thames, brunch at Trafalgar Square, and a retreat into the National Gallery where it was understood that he was not to be disturbed unless of an emergency. “And you two are supposed to be at the airport, boarding a plane to Shanghai.”

Alec offers a beatific smile that immediately sets Q on edge, “True, and we will be out of your hair in a moment, but I thought this conversation warranted a face to face encounter,” Alec slides to Q’s right, bumping shoulders, while Bond silently waits by _Fishermen at Sea_ and Q can’t fathom why. He would guess -moral support- if the thought of 007 trying to be emotionally helpful wasn’t absolutely hysterical, “while James and I were in the cab to Heathrow, a thought came to me.” Trevelyan’s expression flickers from his usual confidence into something uncharacteristically subdued, “when you mentioned your, ah, displacement from home, you said I had died.”

Q blinks. “Yes.”

“You failed to tell me how. I would like to know. I should know.”

Q blinks again, taken aback, “I didn’t? Truly?” His gaze grows distant as he recalls the day he and Bond brought Alec into the fold. 006 had grown crestfallen with the news, silently staring out of the window at the sky hidden by the overcast, bruise-black with hints of red on the horizon, for the latter half of the trip back to Vauxhall Cross. But by they reached headquarters, Trevelyan had essentially bounced back from his melancholic episode and Q felt guilty enough to not ask. “And you wish to know? Do normal people wish to know how they had died?”

“It wouldn’t matter since the danger has already passed. I can make an educated guess, based on clues seen in hindsight,” Alec sighs, “I died at Arkangelsk, didn’t I?”

Q hesitates, eyes still locked on the dreamlike quality of the sea and the nineteenth century maritime warship, struggling to find the words to make his revelations as painless as possible, “You had faked your death at Arkangelsk,” he corrects, unrelenting even as the man stiffens at his side, “And remerged sometime later as the head of the Janus Crime Syndicate, blackmailing MI6 and all the world with Goldeneye.” Operation: Goldeneye occurred before Q’s time but stories of Bond’s exploits during the height of international tensions between Russia and the rest of the world are still bandied about when work becomes slow. Q himself had procured a copy of the mission report and had read it like a nighttime story to his cat. “Bond had written you down as a cold-hearted, cunning, and psychopathic of which,” he waves a hand towards Alec, but does not finish with “ _He’s not wrong, per say.”_

“…James killed me?”

 _According to James, you were better off dead. Better to die quickly than exist as a bitter, resentful, vengeful man who wanted the world to feel your pain manifest tenfold._ “Yes.” _You probably wished for it at the very end, I know I would’ve._ “Officially your COD was crushed by satellite dish.”

And then Q waits, shivering as the palpable tension radiating off both 00 agents. James had been silent throughout the tale. Alec slowly digests the information, seemly tasting flavors and spices, weighing words on his tongue and in his mind. “I know what I am.” He slowly mused with rueful humor, “Revenge has been on the forefront of my mind for years before you came along. I am not surprised.” He leans forward and rests his elbows atop his knees, burying his head into his hands. Q hovers over him uncertainly. “I had stumbled upon one such crossroad, Ourumov had approached me - before Arkangelsk, after meeting you, and I made my choice, wondering what would have happen if I had taken the other path. And now I know and apparently, the outcome is very different. For one, I am alive. I am here.” _With you._ Alec’s back shakes silently; every so often, a noise of hysteria escapes him – he is laughing. “So far I am pleased with the results. Aren’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Kolibri: the tiniest gun you will ever lay your eyes upon. It's like holding a teacup except you're shooting people.  
> \- Q's name: James Lynd. I never thought that Q's name would begin with Q. After all, the previous Q's name was not Qeoffrey Qoothroyd.


	3. XI-XV

XI.

The transition of Lieutenant Colonel Gareth Mallory from Chairman of the Intelligence and Security Committee to Head of Secret Intelligence Service was a smooth one despite his shaky introduction to the agency and the wake of destruction wrought by Tiago Rodriguez, a former operative under the former M. Even while sporting injuries acquired from her last standoff against the cyberterrorist in Scotland, a triangular bandage to cradle her left arm and a stiff torso that implied cracked ribs, Olivia Mansfield was a force to be reckoned with, still able to shrivel people’s self-esteem to a raisin with a mere glare, “You already have a commanding air about you. That is good. Hone it to a sharpness and you will have the loyalty of many under me.”

Mallory wondered how many other experiences he would need before he reached the level of instinct and cynicism seen in Mansfield. Apparently being held in prison for three months by the Irish Republican Army was not enough – perhaps a lifetime of hard decisions would suffice. Olivia Mansfield had taken yesterday off to attend a private funeral, closed casket. Hours after the ceremony had ended, Mallory found her wearing a mask of stoicism standing at the foot of a new tombstone etched with the words, “May he find peace. May he sleep.”

And then, it was business as usual at MI6. Per video chat, he was introduced to individual intelligence section leaders categorized by the country that they were located at. Then he toured through the various facilities at Vauxhall Cross, this time as leader instead of inspector, meeting with the subdivision heads of Psych, Medical, Information Technologies, Finance, Human Resources, etc etc. Then, before Mansfield officially joined Geoffrey Boothroyd in retirement, she gave a couple off-the-books advice regarding a specific group of people.

Bill Tanner: Chief of Staff – the first responder at M’s hearing who returned fire when Raoul Silva and his accomplices had ambushed the parliament chamber. He knows enough about every person who walks these halls to generate comradery, unreasonable amounts of loyalty, and personal information from a wave and an innocuous conversation. He does not stand out with his average looks and average stature, but he carries himself with a relaxed and friendly manner when coaxing out secrets and asking for favors. But relaxed and friendly was not his default and Mallory had noted, during his first visits, the many times Tanner quickly discarded the disguise once out of view. If it had not been for his distinguished position at Six, he would’ve been easy to forget. - Tanner gave Mallory a curt nod, but only after Mansfield pointedly cleared her throat.

Mallory was then introduced to the only two 00 agents present at headquarters who were also, coincidentally, the most dangerous. “Alec Trevelyan: infiltration with government counterintelligence subtype and demolitions. James Bond: infiltration subtype seduction and DEFCON 1 situations.” Trevelyan gave a mocking grin as he clasped his arm over his chest and bent low at the waist. Bond shook Mallory’s hand, careful not to jostle his still tender shoulder, the kind of respect one earns when one takes a bullet for the previous M and evacuates her and the inquiry members from the ensuing firefight, the kind of respect one earns when one turns a blind eye as the infamous Agent 007, the MI6 Quartermaster, and MI6 Chief of Staff blow up a good-sized acre of the Scottish Highlands.

“Mother,” Trevelyan sighed dolefully as if heartbroken, “I can’t believe you’re giving us up for a better life.” Mallory had read his file: the words -volatile- and -mentally unstable- were accompanied by an asterisk which lead to a footnote that reminded the reader to consult the Quartermaster for biannual updates and further concerns.

“I am getting too old to be chasing after you boys,” M muttered and commanded. “Give Mallory your due diligence. Don’t make me come back from retirement to box your ears.”

“Touch old bitch,” Bond remarked with a surprising amount of fondness, “You will not be staying to consult part time?”

M scoffed, “Boothroyd had situationally dependent tips and tricks for Q-branch. In contrast, my role could only be learned through a trial by fire: thousands of experiences and mistakes that I can’t share with my predecessor.” She paused thoughtfully, pursing her lips, “I will be across the river lobbying against Denbigh’s pet project.” Her expression grew cloudy, “The little pissant thinks that Nine Eyes can replace something as intricate and paramount as the 00 program…” She abruptly turned on her heels, dismissing the two operatives who looked both curious and entertained, “You will be called for your next assignment soon and in the meantime, _stay out of trouble_.” Then she continued in a more pleasant tone, “Mallory, let me show you your new secretary. You two will get along just fine.”

Eve Moneypenny: MI6 head secretary boasting of an impressive resume on the international stage, now retired. Though five seconds into the meeting, it was apparent that none of her instincts atrophied. Her fellow coworkers still remember that she had once been very close to replacing 005 before the Patrice-Silva incident judging by the wide berth provided when she saunters the many corridors. “She’ll double as a body guard. We’ll situate her office in front of yours.” Mansfield informed him. “But unlike our many other high-level agents, she is quite efficient with logistics and paperwork.”

“You flatter me,” Moneypenny demurred, her smile, initially bland, turned into something sharp enough to slice jugulars. She turned to Mallory but held herself distant, “Thank you for giving me the opportunity to serve at your side. It’ll take me a couple of weeks to reacquaint myself with the social niceties in bureaucracy.” _I.e. please forgive me for this is the only warning you will get when I inevitably body slam an innocent paper-pusher twice my size for a perceived insult._

“You can start by limiting yourself to five weapons instead of ten,” Mansfield said tartly.

“Only two people so far have identified where I’ve hid them,” Moneypenny waved away her concerns, “Most are prototypes from Q-branch and I am doing my part contributing to trial runs and beta testing.”

“Cheeky,” Mansfield flatly remarked. “Are you authorized by Q-branch? No, no,” She continued before Moneypenny could defend herself, “Q clearly gave you some items under the table without my approval.” Sighing, the older woman tapped the back of Moneypenny’s heels with her pumps and didn’t flinch as a small knife silently sprung into view from the platform. “Speaking of Q, let us go find him. He’ll be elusive after three.”

The Quartermaster, to Mallory’s knowledge, has either many names or no names at all, his past still a mystery despite thorough vetting, only allowed his station due to Major Boothroyd’s persistence and his own frightening, efficient innovations. The three assistants working at stations strategically placed near Q’s office door were required to report any suspicious activity directly to the Chief of Staff. The Eddie Chapman protocols has since relaxed after the famous mission at Montenegro. “Agents 006 and 007 would not spend their time with someone who would move against the country,” Mr Tanner had mused, “Besides, you’ll find that pitting our best assets against men like him is more effective than preemptive measures.”

“Q is Trevelyan’s and Bond’s official handler during missions and their unofficial handler during downtime.” There were many implications hidden between each word of that sentence. Even before Mansfield’s public inquiry and subsequent assassination attempt, Mallory had a vague impression, collected from gossiping employees in the hallways, that the relationship between the agents and the Quartermaster was like that of the sun and its planets, where gravity was the mysterious power that prevented assets from going postal. Possessiveness, sanity borne on slight shoulders, unhealthy codependent relationships: all wonderful elements to a twisted Harlequin novel – except this is not fiction and nuclear weapons are on the line. Mansfield turned a corner and stop at a nondescript door. She rapped sharply twice and opened without waiting for an answer.

“Q?”

He was a young man with unruly dark hair and thin build, remarkably unremarkable. “Ah,” he exclaimed as he pulled his arms out of the engine sitting at the worktable and adjusted his glasses, staining half of his face with grease. “M and…” his eyes darted between them, “M. How can I help you?”

Mansfield tilted her head in greeting, “I’m introducing Mallory to a certain subset of people whom I believe he should meet personally.” Mallory recalled the feverish light behind spectacles and a manic grin as, on the big screen, Mansfield and her two agents brought down a veritable army with gadgets that were not suited for the faint of heart. Q gave a cautious nod and Mallory found it hard to equate the current submissive and deferential behavior to the scary competence during the Skyfall operation. It’s not every day that 00 agents execute orders without question; it’s not every day that MI6 declare mission successful on such dismal odds. What a brilliant and utterly mad man… “I’m also here,” Mansfield added brusquely, “for an update on anything you found on Marco Sciarra.”

“Right, yes. If you can direct your attention here,” after hastily wiping his fingers on a dishtowel, Q pulled up a holographic screen of the world map and focused onto Central America, “R has his whereabouts narrowed to Mexico City, spotted with the ever elusive Mr White. Also, if I may,” he started delicately as the algorithms triangulated a point on a street from three cell phone towers and summoned a CCTV quality image of two men entering a taxi, “who is---”

“You will be reporting to M as of today. This will be his first mission of some importance and my last that I will assist in some capacity – consider it his probational period,” Mansfield announced crisply as if toppling global criminal organizations was the bread and butter of the Secret Intelligence Service (true – to some extent, depending on one’s perspective). “We shall see how he fares.” Mallory got the distinct impression that he was diving headfirst into a frenzy of sharks. “Please brief him on what still needs to be done.”

“Of course,” Q nodded, glancing at Mallory with no small amount of curiosity: scrutinizing, assessing, and then, finding him acceptable, gestured the new M to come closer. The map disappeared as did the camera footage and long lines of code and coordinates spilled from the ceiling, pouring down like water. With a deft flick of his wrist, the Quartermaster downloaded a multitude of files onto M’s data pad. “If you can take a seat, sir, it’ll take a while for me to explain to you the story behind SPECTRE.”

XII.

Madeleine Swann was constantly standing five steps back and two to the right of any situation deemed treacherous, resembling escort missions that 00 agents were often saddled with when they misbehaved. It seemed that ever since she locked eyes with James Bond in Hoffler Clinic in the Alps, she struggled to keep up and follow. He couldn’t bring it in him to feel more than the meagre amounts of sympathy, seeing how her stubbornness, though admirable in any other context, was the reason why they had been falling into all the possible life-threatening situations on the trip from Austria to Morocco. “You’ll be arriving at L’Americain – Mr White’s suite is already prepared, single bed,” Trevelyan told him over the phone in the midst of bullet fire. “Q and Moneypenny will be arriving late afternoon. The latter has acquired a puncture wound in the shoulder.”

“I’ll ready the medical supplies. And, if I may ask, why is Q not at Six?” James’ sibilant tone caused Madeleine Swann to look up sharply from her perch at the corner of the Savoir bed. He met her glare with an unimpressed expression, distracted by the images his overactive mind was offering, of blood staining an ugly cardigan and of a broken neck without a pulse. Q had already died in the field once. Bond was not looking to tempt fate, perilous as it seemed in recent days. He caught his own reflection in the window, a bruised visage blending into the snowcapped mountains in the distance with his lips curled in a frustrated, animal-like snarl.

“On site tech support,” Alec replied grimly, “No one else has his expertise.” Bond swore, dragging a bloody hand through his matted hair. “Also,” Alec added between the intermittent loud exchanges of explosions on his end, “Please inform M that I am requesting immediate diversion of any type at the Saharan Crater Facility. I believe that Nine Eyes is connected with the creation of a Class A4 non-nuclear super weapon and I need to be on site before sending my report.”

“I’ll pass it along,” James muttered as he sent an encrypted message to Tanner and watched his phone flash green.

“Ta.”

 _Click._ “How many more of your men will be arriving?” Swann asked as the dial tone started to whine. She staggered to her feet and, with a sullen expression, began perusing the cabinets for first aid kits, pulling out copious amounts of gauze and four by four sponges, clearly recalling Bond’s less than stellar entrance into her clinic. She placed a pile of towels and sheets on the bed and readied her kit and gloves. “There might not be enough space here to house them.”

 _How many more of your men – she says. My men. My people._ James reveled in the momentary possessive warmth blooming in his chest as he surveyed the area with eyes refreshed by Trevelyan’s report, noting potential security weaknesses, escape routes, blind spots, and areas that could quickly be transformed into shelter if need be. “Two others,” he answered as he pushed a wardrobe to the wall adjacent to the doorway. “Do not worry. We’ll make do.” With only two clips left on hand, he hoped that his backup brought extra ammo. _Can’t say I’m not looking forward to working alongside others who are familiar with the field, no matter how dire the situation. Still…_ How complicated was Moneypenny’s status? Would she be able-bodied enough to contribute to the rotation watch schedule?

So many variables and not enough intel.

…This is fine. He had worked with worse.

As the sun slowly sank beneath the horizon, Bond perused the treasure trove of contents left in Mr. White’s secret room: videotapes, transcripts, charts, photographs, and maps. The deceased man had even drafted a rough plan for any person filled with enough motivation, skill, and hate to bring down SPECTRE. Bond leaned back in a Bradington Young lounger and pressed play on the handheld recorder, drumming his fingers as someone cleared their throat through the coarse noise of loose reels. “To whom it may concern,” Mr. White’s voice echoed in the small studio, “Thank you for agreeing to care for my daughter and accepting my selfish and traitorous change of heart.” Mr. White was a broken man reduced to only his sharp mind, still clear despite his lethal dose of Thallium radiation. “I am and will always be terrible. I understand that this does not absolve any of my crimes, but this doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t heed my advice.”

_Our game is our game. But this? Women? Children?_

As Mr. White listed coordinates, names, and associated weaponry and training level, Bond twirled Sciarra’s SPECTRE ring between his fingers and struggled to remember the face of Franz Oberhauser – a name he has not heard of in years, not since that skiing accident where two lives were lost that day. “Dead in Avalanche” the newspaper had proclaimed in ugly Arial text, the pictures of Hannes Oberhauser and his son, Franz Oberhauser, staring out at the reader. The body of the son had never been recovered… Franz was a man of secret smiles and unparalleled genius – apparent even as a teenager. The passage of time had softened the edges of Bond’s memories as the foster son and brother of the Oberhauser household but Franz had never acted… or had always acted...

His communicator flashed green twice: Alec – with a message: _Sending discoveries your way; for Q_. As James briefly skimmed the first few pages, his heart grew cold and he exited out of the downloading file before he could read any further. _This…_

On tape, Mr. White coughed and hacked at thick sputum. _You’re a kite dancing in the hurricane, Mr Bond. So long._

James was jolted out of his musings the moment the door to the outer corridor was violently kicked open, wood jarring the spring at the foot; Bond could make out shuffling past the walls of his enclave. He reentered the quickly growing chaotic scene where Q was muttering distractedly, “Quickly, Quickly. Keep pressure on that, Moneypenny.” Eve toed off her stilettos and collapsed onto the bed, staining the silk sheets beneath her. “Dr. Swann,” Q addressed the other woman who had rushed forward to examine her new patient, “We are the MI6 agents Mr. Bond had informed you earlier of.” He awkwardly cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses that were speckled with red, “It is unfortunate that we couldn’t meet under more ideal circumstances. My condolences for your father who-”

Swann stiffened while palpating for an access vein. “He is no father of mine.” She interrupted coldly as she applied the rubber tourniquet to Eve’s left bicep.

Q faltered and then turned to Bond with a questioning look who shrugged, “I told her,” he informed the younger man, taking a cursory glance beyond the doorway, “Hostiles?”

“Dealt with either by us or by their own superiors, gone similarly in the way of your new informant,” Q replied, tossing a bag with what seemed to be magazine clips. “It wasn’t pretty. The degeneration begins ironically at the skin before any effects on visceral organs are observed. Nobody deserves that sort of death – but it makes me wonder what people do deserve,” he murmured as Swann hooked the IV drip bag to the bedpost. “But I won’t say anymore.” He sighed, eyes drifting towards the only window in the room, towards an indescribable point, un-focusing as the emotions concerning his complicated relationship with his deceased sister roused from the depths of his memory.

“I know the atrocities he has committed,” Swann said sharply as she soaked a cloth in cetrimide solution, “He is my father, yes. Whether he is a good, loving father or not depends entirely on your interpretation of affection and responsibility. Besides,” Eve groaned but remained still, “Nothing he has done and nothing he can do absolves him of his work. Now,” she imperiously held out a gloved hand, “I need a suture kit, preferably one opened over sterile cloth.”

“Well spoken,” Q murmured, eyeing the curved tip of the needle with some trepidation, “No one is disagreeing with you, Dr Swann. Though,” he offered a boyish grin meant to disarm emotional walls, “I’m glad that we have your expertise. Bond once stitched himself up with dental floss, nearly gave our medical team an aneurysm with how shoddy of a job it was.” Bond felt his right eyebrow twitch.

“Madeleine, please,” she demurred with a closed lip smile, “psychiatrists are not usually seen in emergent situations but years working at the Hoffler clinic has forced some basic first aid into my repertoire. There is no one else but me working there, you see. Small stick, Miss Moneypenny,” she added as the needle slipped into bruised skin.

“A psychiatrist,” Q continued blithely, watching Dr Swann’s shoulders slowly relax from their hypervigilant state, “excellent. No doubt you’ve already psychoanalyzed us.”

“I am, undoubtedly,” Eve weakly joked, eyes still closed, “the most unhinged woman in the country. Go on. Ask me about the things I see and voices I hear. Madder than Bond.” She sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, “Be a bit gentler, will you, Doctor?”

“I am keeping you alive, hallucinations and all,” Swann humored her audience, attention entirely pulled away from Bond who caught Q’s gaze and subtly jerked his head to Mr. White’s alcove.

Having done his part in soothing the hackles of their new mission parameter, Q shoved his hands into his jacket and casually padded over as Eve Moneypenny shifted to the side of the bed facing the windows while engaging the doctor in further banter. Before the door closed, she tilted her head back and winked at the two men. “I’ll take first watch and skim the information,” Q offered as Bond handed over the thumb drive containing pertinent information on SPECTRE, “Eve may be up for keeping vigil later tonight but she’s out of commission for now. Usually, we would all share but I’m not sure how with---“

“There’s a spare cot if Swann’s sensibilities get the best of her,” James answered before Q could finished and turned away as the younger man blinked in confusion at the vitriol in his words. “Never mind that - There’s more. Trevelyan found a hidden project associated with Nine Eyes at the Saharan Crater Facility.” Q synced his handheld with Bond’s phone, eyes widening as he processed the proposal on the screen. “I haven’t got the chance to give it a proper once over and I didn’t want,” Bond cleared his throat and tried again, “but he said that it was relevant to your,” he raised a shoulder in faux casualness, “unusual circumstances.” Behind the thin wall, Madeleine Swann laughed freely for the first time in days. Eve was clearly working her usual magic.

“Oh,” Q hushed, finger trembling as he swiped from page to page. After a few seconds of tense silence, he started, “This is- this is reconnaissance. But through scrying, not through gathering intelligence. I thought my efforts had been in vain.”

 _Scrying? Viewing? Through what medium? A portal?_ “You mean…”

Q abruptly stood, nearly upending the table in the process, “I’ve just been looking in the wrong direction,” he muttered with an almost manic air about him, “I knew it couldn’t be the last mission but I never suspected it was this one. From what I could recall, SPECTRE never dealt with such technologies. If only I had considered their access to a Sychrotron instead of the Casimir vacuum as a method to satisfy the negative energy requirements.” He began pacing, drawing in shaky breaths between each sentence, “But how did Blofeld ever got his hands on the best minds in the world and where did he find the funds? I must have missed this the first time. Or did the timeline become self-fulfilling? Did I not see it before? Did I not see it this cycle? But no, that’s not it. I feel I’ve grown-,” Q trailed off, turned, and stared at James Bond, as if suddenly seeing him for the first time, “complacent.”

James Bond watched the other man deflate, sinking back into his chair with his hands gripping his hair. “Alec is making his way back to London. You won’t need to ready his transport. M has eyes on Denbigh.”

“James,” Q blankly stated, hands falling limply to his side. “You are still here.”

James reached for Q’s wrist and pressed three fingers at his pulse point, allowing the rapid yet steady beat to anchor his more restless thoughts. “Are you sure you are well enough to take first watch?” The room was illuminated via cracks under the door and the laptop screen: words becoming lines becoming paragraphs becoming secrets. There was a question meant to be asked but Bond didn’t wish to ask, was too scared to ask. He could barely grasp the significance of the matter, mind having gone into denial at the implications. Any further words died at the edge of his tongue.

“Yes,” Q answered resolutely, “I must know and I’m anxious to get started,” referring to Alec’s findings. He shut the screen; leaving behind a thin silhouette infused in darkness. “You… you haven’t read it in its entirety, have you? James?” James didn’t respond; James didn’t ask. He wanted to know; he didn’t want to know. “Yet, you aren’t outside.”

“I’m here.” He simply replied with the distinct feeling that he and Q are having two entirely different conversations.

Q slipped out of James’ grip and opened the door, bathing the room in sudden light. “You get like this before. I couldn’t tell whether you didn’t understand or whether you were being deliberately obtuse. Maybe it was something else.” Times like these: Q wouldn’t make sense, referencing a timeline long dead. “Complacency,” smiling, he gestured at the hotel room where Dr. Swann was monitoring Moneypenny’s vitals and patted his laptop gently, “It gets the best of us.”

XIII

Over the next few days, Madeleine Swann distances herself from the field agents and latches onto Q, having identified him as the person besides herself who is the least threatening, never mind that danger in the twenty-first century can also be measured in the amount of damage one is capable of with access to any computer. Q doesn’t specialize in field work but that doesn’t mean that he was never sent out on assignment that needed him to consult – nobody ever perceived him as an operative: none of Trevelyan’s powerful bulk, none of Bond’s lethal air – but his unassuming nature suited him well and his amiability encouraged Swann to cooperate in the company of dangerous persons.

The timeline has diverged once again. Madeleine Swann’s nonexistent rapport with Agent Bond should’ve blossomed into respect and eventual romance, culminating into a glorious sunset backdrop over the London skyline as the couple ascends a helicopter, never to be seen by MI6 again. Here, Madeleine Swann was not the latest “Bond girl” and James Bond was not interested.

Q is on a plane, humming anxiously as he thumbs through the safety card on the back of the seat in an attempt to distract himself from thinking of the one hundred and seven ways this contraption can crash and/or explode. The window offers a lack of scenery: no land, no sea, just clouds. Swann is asleep, sprawled elegantly across an entire aisle. Bond is nowhere to be seen. Q grits his teeth and excuses himself to the restroom, now the fifth time in forty minutes.

He splashes water from the basin onto his face, the cold stabilizing his mind and preventing him from descending into mindless panic, at least for a while. He gasps as rivulets run over his eyes, heaving dryly as his hands grip the counter. _I should have built my own private jet from MI6’s funds. I trust my work over this piece of absolute shite._ They will be cruising at twelve thousand meters in the air for a good six more hours. Six more hours of sheer terror – that wasn’t too bad, was it?

“There you are,” a voice interrupts his thoughts as he makes his way back to his seat; Q turns around. “Poor dear.” Moneypenny is standing behind him, offering a pill that lies innocently on her palm, “Ativan,” she explains as Q swallows it dry.

“Thanks.” Eve Moneypenny is a collage of white and red on her left and pressed tailored clothes on her right. Her face has regained most of her color compared to her ghostly pallor a few days prior. “How is your shoulder?”

“We won’t know for certain until I reach Medical,” She replies, touching the area gingerly: a rush job, but still holding. “At least I’m not feeling faint anymore – it had been a touch and go at the beginning. The doctors on the phone said to drink fluids until I can get imaging done and they aren’t worried.” She grins, “That was a doozy, running from Hinx’s remaining men. It was the thought of Bond’s face if you got hurt that gave me enough strength to keep going.” Moneypenny had done her job at providing covering fire while Q concentrated on detonating certain robotic arms at the Crater Facility for Trevelyan and didn’t even stop when the first barrage of bullets reached her. “We came out of it all right. Now get back in your seat before the medicine hits you.”

“I’m glad,” he says as she fusses with the blankets. “Speaking of. Where is Bond?”

Moneypenny pauses and tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips in thought. “Bond is a bit distracted.  Who knows what is going on in his mind.” Q shrugs; Moneypenny turns around with a knowing glint in her eyes, “you know, don’t you?” Q shrugs again, recalling the pages detailing extensions made to the stress-energy tensor equation overlying the parameters for the Alcubierre time dilation. At that moment in Mr. White’s room, Bond had felt the inevitability of the end and he hadn’t been ready to face it. Bond never manages his sympathetic emotions well, allowing the ineffable to linger and stew in his mind. The problem remained still.

“I do. It’s private though.” The problem was the question. The problem was that not even Q knew what the answer was.

“So, it is about you. Brilliant.” Moneypenny sighs, kneading the skin above her nose. “Get yourself comfortable; it will be a while before we land.”

Alec Trevelyan met the party at the tarmac with his usual kit: bomber jacket, combat boots, and no less than five different firearms hidden throughout his clothes. Though he nodded respectfully at his fellow Six members, he stared at Swann like how a young schoolboy would consider a toy train: something to be bought, played, and ultimately discarded. Come to think of it – Q has never seen Alec seduce any women under his mission or civilian persona – certainly not in the memorable way that Bond goes about with his strategy: stalking up to women at bars with a purpose, charming them with offers of their deepest hearts’ desires. _Alec would sooner marry the concept of explosions than an actual human being_ – Q finally decides as 006’s smile took on a predatorial edge, “Here is a smart one,” he purrs. “Your face is familiar, Miss. Have we met before?”

Swann draws closer to Q’s side, as if he can shield her from the worst aspects of the operative. “No. Doctor Madeleine Swann,” she greets tersely, “pleasure.” Q sighs.

Trevelyan affects an expression of false bemusement, “I remember now. Mr. White’s beloved and sought-after daughter.” Unlike Bond, Alec liked to intimidate and observe – cat with mouse. “I have our rides ready, obviously,” he waves a hand at the two Aston Martins parked behind him, tossing a set of keys to Moneypenny who snatched them effortlessly from the air. “009 was happy to lend out his for the good of Queen and Country.” 009 probably pissed his pants facing down Trevelyan the sociopath at his most charismatic state. 009 will probably need a few days leave and a fruit basket.

“Trevelyan,” Moneypenny sighs, twirling the keyring around her index finger, “Tell me you did not.”

“I have no idea what you are implying Agent Moneypenny.” Alec clears his throat and opened the door with a grand gesture, “Q, with me. The ladies will be with 007.” James nods in assent, facial expression flickering for a split second into a sulking displeasure before reverting to his usual blank façade.

“Wouldn’t it be prudent to have Swann with me?” Q asks as he buckles in, listening to the engine awake beneath his feet, “If she stays with the heavy hitters like Eve and James, she’ll end up in the line of fire.”

Alec shifts gears and tears off into the streets, “It’s too risky,” he clicks his tongue, “Dr. Swann would draw too much attention if she was suddenly wretched from Bond’s side. At this point in the game, our enemies would most likely, if they decide she is valuable as a piece, use her safety as leverage – this makes them predictable.” Q frowns displeasure as they speed past Brentford, “Come now. You know I don’t like you making that face.”

“I know who you are.”

“Then you know it is hard for me to care, Q.” Alec glances over as the car stops at a red light and waves the pedestrians by, “She’s not one who will prove useful for the next few hours.”

“It’s just- You’re right.” Grimacing, Q runs a hand through his hair as they drive over the Thames. Alec is correct if not a bit callous with his words. “Alright then. It’s too late to change your plan and I wouldn’t even have a better idea on hand. I assume you’ve also set up without me.”

“Roughly speaking, M and Tanner will meet us at the side entrance to the Center of National Security. Open the glove compartment.” Q sees a semi-automatic pistol, modified 9mm with 10 rounds. “You and I will enter the east wing and ambush Max Denbigh in his office. From him, we’ll procure a drive that holds the access codes to open or shut down Nine-Eyes.”

Q hums in thought, gaze drifting out to follow the vagaries of London traffic. “I can hack into Nine-Eyes on my own to force a shut down. Why would we want to utilize finesse?”

Alec Trevelyan slowly exhales as they pull into a small driveway wedged between two brick buildings, “I wanted to give you a choice. The thumb drive will be able to do that.” They exit the car as the Aston Martin’s doors open like wings, “You’ve read what I sent you? Then you know what I am talking about. And I will not elaborate. It’s hard for me; I’d rather not say it outright. It forces me to acknowledge the situation.”

“You and James share similar coping mechanisms,” Q notes dryly.

“That means that he is upset too then, as he should.” The two men press their backs against the wall, weapons ready, silent for exactly ten heartbeats. “Have you thought about it?” Alec whispers as he pushes the handle down and pushes back. “That choice. Will you stay? Will you return to your old life?”

On the other side of the doorway was a dark room. Q says, “No.”

“No?”

“No, I have not made my decision.”

“You know my preference and how fond I am of you but I will not try to convince you. It’s your affair.” Alec hums in consideration, “You still have time. Now, with me. Stay close and alert.”

XIV.

The architect who designed the bowels of the CNS building had opted for a magnificent opulence over brutalist modernism: arched ceilings made of the same stone material seen on the floor, mimicking the old London before industry and fog and glass and steel. The only strategic advantage this area has is its structural integrity: if any normal bomb were to go off, the pillars would hold. However, there’s a curious lack of access to any available twenty-first century technologies besides the contraption in the middle of the room that doesn’t seem to run on electricity but rather an immutable force. The playing field is oddly level and the standoff couldn’t have been any more inconvenient for either party.

Madeleine Swann was laid out on the catwalk, knocked out cold by the soundwave of the first explosion, resembling a tragic heroine carved from marble. Eve is perched in the rafters with her sniper rifle ready and aimed, discouraging SPECTRE henchmen from rushing into the chamber. Bond had taken cover behind a wall of hardware secure filing boxes, nursing a blown-out kneecap thanks to Franz Oberhauser now Ernst Stavro Blofeld and his delightful two hours of torture, stopped short courtesy of Q’s exploding watch. James wiped his brow and rubbed the drying blood between his fingers.

“Cuckoo,” Blofeld sang as he crawled across the floor on two elbows and one knee, leaving behind a streak of red, “Out of the father’s nest and into the bomb,” which was the center pedestal sitting at a spot the same distance between two enemies, resembling a Fabergé egg glowing with an ethereal blue light, the unspoken power that was running everything below basement level. The pillars would hold with the explosion but everyone inside would be dead. “In three minutes,” Blofeld waved a hand, “this building will change – the portal will spit out what could have been to who it is facing – attached to the bomb – and it shall blow again. And again. And again. However, many times I wish. I originally had planned on escaping but I am willing to settle – if I die, then you shall come with me.”

Ernst Stavro Blofeld spoke like a man who had gaze into the alternate dimensions, touched the folded geometric space planes, and came out of it all the madder. “Franz, you flatter me with the effort of your hate,” Bond taunted, rubbing the back of his neck as his cover shakes from bullet fire, “How long have you felt this way? This fixation of yours.” There were five bullets left in his Walther PPK/S but if he pushed on the button by the cylinder release and the grip, he could activate the smoke canisters for one last hurrah. From the pedestal ran five cords and wires to a wall where the contraption sat: dual curved steel and alloy reaching for the ceiling like a laurel crown, surrounded by a mixture of large and small screens and holograms. In the center floated blue nothingness.

“You wouldn’t know,” Blofeld returned, “Years of planning. Do you remember us being raised together? I have only the fondest of memories when I saw you suffer.” Franz Oberhauser was an unpredictable teenager who grinded his teeth when situations didn’t turn his way, to explode into violent tantrums that often resulted in bruises and blood before apologizing with all meekness and aplomb to avoid punishment. Bond wondered if the habits carried over.

“Bond?” Eve called from her position. “I have visual.”

“Do not shoot.” The founder of SPECTRE was the only variable stopping his heavily armed and dangerous associates from storming in through the far corridor. Blofeld was both the hostage and the inevitable. At this point, James could only hope that his message to M – _Hour and forty-five left as of 1745 -_ would urge the other teams into frenzied action. The piece of human ingenuity continued to bathe the floor with blue light and thrum, whispers from the other side of the entity, portal, however one decided to call it, grew louder, as if angered due to the the neglect from both sides.

Ernst Stavro Blofeld began to talk. “I know everyone around you and everyone you are close to. I’ve tracked you for over twenty years and I learned your mind, your passions, your tastes. I sent you people I know you would be drawn to and killed them.” _Vesper Lynd_. “But you did not hurt.”

“Twenty-plus years of devotion,” Bond murmured.

“I sent old fears after those you hold dear.” _M._ “But she still walks.”

\- _I feel so blessed; not many people can boast to hold under a madman’s scrutiny_ – His mind supplied with Q’s derisive tone. Bond cocked his head to the side as, in the corner of his eye, Eve surreptitiously glances behind her towards the south entrance, ears metaphorically perked for any sounds.

“You used to fall in love so easily – dancing to a woman’s puppet strings as easily as they do to yours.” _Not anymore_ : goes the unspoken addendum.

“What you are telling me, Franz, is that your plans have all failed.” Bond strained his ears towards the portal running on the equations of time travel and alternate dimensions – of Gödel and the Alcubierre Warp Drive, wondering if it was his imagination telling him that he was hearing his own voice in the beyond or if his hearing stayed true.

“A terrible event for you leads to a wonderful event for me,” Blofeld continued to rant, “I wanted to show you what is left of your world - damnation and ruin. It wasn’t any act of God. It was me and myself alone.” And at that very moment, Bond was suddenly aware of the life he could have had, maybe had had in another universe, had it not been for his unintentional traveler and dear friend. James Bond could’ve not just been cracked and scraped at the edges but utterly shattered in spirit, without hope for any meaningful relationships in others other than sex, viewing MI6 as an obligation at best and probation at worst. “Behold and consider,” Blofeld said gleefully, “with that wonderful instrument, created at my behest by the world’s best physicists and engineers, I can go back. I can kill your little wild hair boy before you ever meet him. I can sabotage your meeting and destroy whatever friendship you had with him. I can make sure that all the pain I have planned for you will be felt.”

 _Quartermaster._ “You dare,” his hands trembled in anger

“I do.” Blofeld laughed, “And the best part would be that you would never know what you are missing, but I would. Less than one minute left, Cuckoo, before my present fully activates. I should tell you. Paradoxes do not exist – once the other world starts, this one will di-”

The ceiling groaned and shook, scattering collected dust and dirt across the floor and in the next second, the doorway above the caves holding Blofeld’s associates collapsed, bringing down tonnes of boulders onto vulnerable heads. Eve released a string of filthy curses as her field of vision drops to only a few meters on each side. Bond peered cautiously over the brim of his shelter. The screams turned quiet with the tell-tale bursts of a silencer followed by heavy boots padding across a stone floor. Alec Trevelyan parted the lingering clouds, smoothly sliding down the pile of loose debris on his heels. “Zdravstvuyte, Mr. Blofeld,” he greeted with a gun on one hand and a serrated army knife on the other. “I am Agent 006. I am here on the behalf of MI6 to examine your alternate universe device that you and your colleague, Mr. Denbigh, have been boasting about.”

Blofeld’s amiable nature morphed into a frightening countenance, “Do not touch it!” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the thought of taking orders from an enemy who has clearly lost. “The power is drawn from colliders and has not been tested outside of strict environments. The backlash could decimate everything it touches through gravitational lensing – this room, this building, this city.”

“He’s lying.” A new voice, a familiar, wonderful voice, approached from the south wall, still half shrouded in darkness. “You can shoot, 006. It’s safe.”

“With pleasure.” The pedestal sputtered with sparks that scattered far and high-pressured steam poured from its dual canisters after four quick bursts. To his credit, Blofeld does not make a sound of outrage. Though the clearing remained blue, the constant hum from the machines grew softer. “Quartermaster.” Alec Trevelyan waved magnanimously towards the furious man. “May I introduce to you the leader of our most recent global criminal organization.”

“I could have taken you.” Blofeld insisted, glaring darkly from his fallen state. “My men could have.”

“Your men aren’t here.” Q emerged into view with a semi-automatic pistol on hand, his overcoat singed at the sleeves and stained with a splatter of blood. His eyes narrowed behind his crooked glasses, “It’s just you, a hassle, with, I hope, answers.”

“I would lie. You called me a liar.”

“And I would like an explanation on why your little computations decided to choose me as the passenger,” the handle of Q’s gun forced Blofeld to raise his chin. “Be careful with your words, Mr. Oberhauser. I have read all that you have read.”

“You…” Blofeld scowled, “You are James’ boy. Are you the fae changeling?”

“Answer,” Q gritted his teeth, “My. Question.”

“What is your question?”

“Why me?” Q’s gun pressed deeper into the soft flesh underneath Blofeld’s chin.

“My little project should’ve have chosen anyone. I asked the technicians to program the settings to guide me to the persons most interweaved within Mr. Bond’s life. The machine sees and selects. You, little anomaly, linchpin, convergence of strings, were most likely always present at the right place and the right time.” Blofeld bared his teeth. “It was never about you.”

“You’re right. In the end, it was about two people.” Q scrutinized the man, his hair in disarray and taking on the ambient blue sheen, “The portal shouldn’t be able to do what it did to me. You don’t know.” He stated flatly, taking a step back, gaze flickering between the man at his feet and the portal to his right. He raised his gun, “Fucking,” he reloaded, “Perfect.”

The doors slammed open; the rapid footsteps indicated two new visitors. In the rafters, Moneypenny readied her rifle before relaxing a moment later. “Q!” M shouted with Tanner at his heals. “We’ve secured the area!” He stopped short, absorbing the scene before him, eyes widening when he spotted the pistol poised at Ernst Stavro Blofeld’s forehead. “Q, do not shoot. There’s no need-”

“I can order my people to program it to your specifications. People only I have access to,” Blofeld interrupted, growing cross-eyed as he stared down the barrel. “I see you watching it with greed. You want to use it, don’t you? It’s risky to use it without all the resources at your disposal. All I ask for is a few small favors - starting with my life. It takes you and you can have whatever you wish. Bring you forward. Bring you back.” He paused and spat at his captor. “I’ve lost. I can’t hurt. It does not matter to me what you want. Be what you are. I see that light in your eyes. You hate me.”

“Lower the gun, Quartermaster.”

“Do you hate me enough to disobey orders?” Blofeld hissed, “Kill me. Kill me! Kill the man who started your life. Kill the only man who could send you home to where you always desired! You can try on your own, fool boy. Your arrogance may allow you to half succeed half dead. Your anger can’t be justified – it’s blind. You can’t think clearly, can you?”

“You underestimate me,” Q said coldly, “I don’t need your help to get what I want.”

“-for questioning, Quartermaster! We need to bring him in!”

“Do not be absurd!” Blofeld snapped, “Do you think you can figure out the intricacies of Gödel Metric on your own? You will regret everything! But fine. I leave you to your hubris. I hope that you will destroy Bond with your efforts. Go on. Finish it… Finish it!”

“us – We need him alive-”

Q took the shot. The echo bounced off the walls and silenced everyone in the chamber. A bullet lodged itself in between Blofeld’s wide eyes: a perfect circle that slowly filled with red. Ernst Stavro Blofeld collapsed forward a few inches from Q’s feet, hands outreached as if trying to make one last grab for some form of absolution. For scant seconds, one could hear only the hum of the machines and the steady breaths of someone trying to rein in their rage. “Were you planning on prosecuting him to the full extent of the law?” Q asked humorlessly, “My apologies.”

M sighed, the first one to break the tension and its chokehold on the room. Bond also exhaled slowly, feeling the sudden urge to smile or even laugh. Moneypenny descended the ladder and was at his side in seconds, pulling his arm over his shoulder and hauling him to his feet. “Anything I need to be worried about, 007?” She asked. “Broken ribs? Imminent death?” He shook his head.

They may never know the details of how one manipulates timelines. He wondered about the consequences of changed destinies and fates and whether it was truly linear. He wondered if Franz Oberhauser could have truly restarted the space-time loop and erased everything he held dear. He wondered why Q was chosen and then he wondered who else but Q. “Let’s try to make him feel welcome, alright?” Boothroyd said one day so long ago, “Tell Tanner to instate him as R for now; he’ll be Q by the end of next month.”

Q walked up to the podium and skimmed his fingers across the curve of the pedestal. Then, he turned on his heels and gave the turbines and the open portal a critical once-over while typing on the keyboard. He watched as control panel slid out smoothly from a hidden compartment and a holographic screen flickered to life at eye level. His fingers twitched as he read the manifest with an unreadable expression on his face. James Bond wondered what he could be thinking.

“I wish I saw his face when he realized that we never needed him,” Alec Trevelyan ventured when Q’s shaking did not stop, leaning heavily against the younger man’s shoulder. 006 dipped his head down until his cheek brushed against another. “You can… still… if…” He muttered quietly, “You deserve an option.” The shaking hands reached out with clear longing and faltered again.

“I told him I can. Denbigh’s drive told me more than I needed.” Q’s gaze swiveled from Alec to James who was limping closer with Eve’s assistance. “I might.” Biting his lower lip in a nervous gesture, Q tilted his head to the side towards the portal whose whispers grew loud enough to finally be heard.

> _“Q, look at me… Q! …Q!”_

That was James Bond’s voice on the other side, overflowing with stark terror and grief. “That was the mission at the Eduardo Avaroa National Reserve. Why is the machine showing me this?” Q asked. Nobody answered. Then, little by little, there was a sharp click of heels against linoleum, growing ever so loudly. Moneypenny gave a sharp intake of breath, recognizing her own gait.

> _“He’s dead, Bond.”_ With a voice more hoarse and rough than anyone had ever heard before, it was apparent that the Eve Moneypenny on the other side was also grieving. Alec stiffened.
> 
> _“Why is he dead? Why did you bring him here?”_
> 
> _“He was sent here because we needed him here. He is MI6. We know the risks. You do too. Please let him go. I need his fingerprints to initiate the second phase of_ _protocol 4623A."_ There was another beat of silence. _“Bond. Why are you here?”_
> 
> _“I… I don’t know. I thought… I didn’t think…”_

“You could go back,” Alec stated plainly when James Bond’s disquiet gave way to static. “To that. He wants you back.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.” Q turned and stared at Bond with new wonder: the James Bond who wasn’t holding a dying man, the James Bond who was sporting a blown kneecap and who knows what else injuries, the James Bond who swallowed thickly and met Q’s gaze unflinchingly with a single-minded intensity as all the room’s occupants turned to stare at the pair, waving his free arm at the portal that still called, beckoning with a crooked blue finger, singing its siren song. “I would like for you to stay.”

“Stay.” Q echoed.

“I want you.” James offered a wane smile, dizzy with anxiety and blood loss and the future. “The James Bond of the other world seems to be nursing a change of heart that was triggered by your tragedy. I made my decision the first day I saw you.”

A painful laugh tore out of the young man, “You…” Without warning, Q swung his state of the art gun at the control panel, forgoing the bullets entirely for blunt damage. Sparks fly, crystal shards illuminate their immediate surroundings, casting strange and creeping shadows, and Q sobbed. “God damn you both.” He struck again and the portal began to sputter and slow, computer screens popped and smoked at the curvature’s borders, and the light bulbs exploded into little fireworks. The whispers and the whirl of sound that was once constant in the background lessened and bowed to crackling white noise. On the other side of the portal, James Bond’s mourning grief dissipated like smoke as if it never was. In the silence, Q hunched over the pedestal like a dying man, hands digging into the wires and, with defeat and resignation and finality, said once more, “God damn you both.”

XV.

No one came out of the confrontation unscathed. What a grand portraiture the party must make. Eve Moneypenny swayed on her feet, holding her arm stiffly in a sling. Mallory nursed his multitude of bruises after grappling with Denbigh and defenestrating him out his office window, giving minute winces every time he shifted his posture. Tanner stood stoically still despite his shrapnel wounds, wearing the same stained white shirt turned pink and red from his encounter with a multitude of inconveniently placed C4s linked to timers. Alec sported a couple of bullet wounds and bruised ribs from going toe to toe with other men and women but seemed to have reverted to his inappropriate jovial mood. James would be on crutches for the foreseeable future, never mind that Medical and M both preferred him in a wheelchair. Q was on a strict nap schedule due to his concussion and was forced to sleep on his stomach due to his back painted in a veritable rainbow of bruises.

The MI6 party stands as Madeleine Swann walks out of the double doors with her head high, hiding her wounds and vulnerable spots with makeup and professionalism. Her driver holds the door aloft patiently as she shakes hands with M and Tanner, gives Eve a kiss on her cheek in gratitude, and hugs Q tightly around his waist, lingering in his embrace, careful not to jostle his injuries. Then, she lets go and sniffs delicately in the 00 agents’ direction – Q couldn’t help but admire her sass. James keeps his expression placid but Alec smirks, chuckling when she beats a retreat to her ride.

A small stab of pain flashes behind his eyes. He presses two fingers to his temple. _Something is off._

“Are you alright?” James asks, pressing against his right side, a line of warmth down his arm.

“I was waiting for you to-,” Q pauses, wondering if his confusion was due to the closing portal, his own trauma and lack of sleep, or a combination of both. “Why aren’t you leaving with her?” Scattered bits of memories surfaced from his last confrontation with SPECTRE - he struggles to regain his bearings, breathing in the crisp London air.

Incredulous, James raises an eyebrow, “Why would I go with her?”

Q tilts his head back, blinking rapidly as spots darted in and out of his vision. Madeleine Swann was Bond’s last, wasn’t she? “She offered you things that I cannot give you.”

Bond places a heavy palm on Q’s forehead, feeling for a temperature. “You look a bit flushed. Medical must have missed something when they did your scans.” Then he freezes in realization, glancing back at Swann who was sliding into the backseat, closing the door behind her, “Is this where I left you in your other life?” Q leans into Bond’s touch without a word. “Truly? I left with her to retire?”

“Perhaps?” he answers weakly, tensing and relaxing as the hand moved to his nape and squeezed in reprimand for his absent reply. “This is where you shed your 007 mantle – I had been expecting a change to normal MI6 routines,” he admits, “Not sure how.”

James sighs, “If I tell you that I wish for you to stay, then its implied that I’m staying too.” Q overbalances, pushing a hand against the agent’s lapels, shivering as his low baritone translated to soothing purrs, “You are not getting rid of me that easily, Quartermaster. Besides, you offer me things that she cannot give me.”

Q glances up, puzzled. “Such as?” He clarifies after a beat. He had been waiting for the agent to choose his path at the fork in the road – had the man already made his decision? Was there ever a hard question waiting to be answered.

James grins, “Exploding pens.”

“James, no.” Mallory mutters at the side, looking faintly pained.

“James, yes.” He leans down, soft breath tickling the skin beneath Q’s ear, “Speaking of staying, I know the rest of your day is open, Q. I hope you can spend it with me. We have a lot to talk about – clear the air, see where we stand. Perhaps Mr. Trevelyan can also join us.”

Suddenly, Alec appears on Q’s left, bending down to press his lips to Q’s forehead. “What are your plans?” Q inquired with a little curiosity as the black car disappears around the corner and the party breaks off to separate groups. Winking and blowing a kiss, Moneypenny departs with M and Tanner to the conference room while Alec and James guides Q to the west elevators.

“Negotiations about how we could share you,” Alec answers bluntly while glaring over Q’s head towards James. “Physically.”

“Wining and dining.” James says at the same time, clasping Q’s right hand in a hot grip. “I won’t monopolize him, Alec. I’m hurt that you would consider me so selfish.”

“You are a possessive and jealous man, Mr. Bond.” Alec gives an unimpressed look as the elevator doors close and they descend to the basement.

“James, please.” The other man leers. “I’ll make sure you’ll be there when I fuck him into the mattress. I won’t be averse to another companion if it is you and he likes you well enough. And I, well, you know how perfectly fine I will be with this arrangement.”

“I…” Q sputters at the sudden indecency, feeling heat rise from his collar to his cheeks. A cool wash of relief falls over him when he realizes that the halls are empty. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace private,” Alec answers, a hand resting at Q’s lower back. “Q. You must know that, after this, I do not intend to let you go. James is of similar opinion.” He pushes open the door leading to the Quartermaster’s private workroom and pauses at the threshold. “You have to tell us now. Is this alright?”

 _Is this alright? You are all already strange bedfellows with only each other at occasions; this change would only cement the strange relationship that oddly works._ “It’s good.” Q says after a beat of silence. _You never thought it would come to this - you never considered in your first life. But something had been building since you met these two men. You knew there the slow growing sensuality of skin against skin but there was not enough time to give it thought until now. Suddenly there is a wave of heat or has it always been there? This feels..._ He unthinkingly parts his mouth when Alec touches his lips with a thumb, “better than good,” he breathes out.

James gives a throaty chuckle as he steps forward, divesting Q of his coat, fingers burying into his unruly hair. “Excellent. I look forward to seeing what will befall our time together.” Q moans as the man kisses his neck at the pulse point, as Alec dips his fingers below Q's belt, as... _I... I want..._ He tries to speak but another jolt of pleasure travels --- "Shhh. We'll take care of you."

And the door shuts behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The science behind time travel and alternate universes: It's practically magic. Whatever Blofeld built works semi-independently from its own codes and had mistaken the keystones of Bond's life to be singular and of potential that doesn't have to be realized. Q had the most potential - seen only during his stay in the second dimension. Nobody can explain why it pulled Q from his primary world and dropped him into this one >>> What's important to this story is that Q destroyed everything.  
> \- What would've happened if Q took door number two: ... hmm. Not sure.  
> \- But where's the porn: Yeah. I'm sorry. Trust me when I say that your imagination will be more explicit than whatever I write.  
> 


End file.
